


Love Lost

by kradarua



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Prince Castiel, Princess Hannah, Royal Guard Dean Winchester, Sleeping Beauty Elements, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Virgin Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23331646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kradarua/pseuds/kradarua
Summary: Castiel goes to wake his sleeping beauty and things don't quite go to plan.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 244
Collections: Dean/Cas Reverse Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so lucky to have gotten a chance to work with the lovely Aggiedoll for this year's reverse bang! The art masterpost for this story is [here](https://imgur.com/a/owFM2Mr). Basically our working relationship consisted of her surprising me with beautiful new art and me sobbing about it. I hope we get to work together again soon <3
> 
> Someone send my beta MalMuses flowers; I don't know why she keeps puttiing up with me but thank goodness she does. (don't leave me <3)

Once upon a time, before there were lands or seas or the cosmos, there was a light.

At first, the light was quite content in its peaceful, solitary existence. But eventually, as time and space spread outwards in every direction, the light grew lonely and bored. With a great burst of energy that sent the first sounds and colors hurtling into existence, the light tore itself apart to form an equal opposite.

“I am Light,” the light explained to its other half, “and you are Darkness.”

Darkness surveyed the void around them. “There is nothing here but us,” it said. 

“What else should there be?” Light asked.

“Everything,” Darkness answered, coaxing a swirl of colorful dust to become the first star.

And so, together, Light and Darkness set about creating everything.

Eons later, long after the first beings had come and gone, a mighty King and his beloved Queen ruled over a massive territory. They were generous, benevolent monarchs, well-loved by their subjects.

But despite the kingdom’s prosperity, despite the good health of their people and the bountiful resources they had been blessed with, the King and Queen were plagued by a solitary black stain of despair: they were unable to conceive. In public, the Queen put on a brave face and tended to her people’s woes as needed, but in the privacy of their home the King would find her, tucked in on herself and rocking as she wept in agony.

At last, the King could stand his lady’s sadness no more and he summoned a High Priestess to their chambers and asked for a ritual, a ceremony, a miracle that would give them the child they so desperately wanted. Together they prayed long into the night, begging that their blessed creators hear them.

One year later, to everyone’s delight, the Queen gave birth to a healthy baby girl.

“You should not have meddled,” Light reprimanded Darkness as they hovered outside the very fabric of space and time, watching their creations.

“We’ve created so much,” argued Darkness, “Why deny them this when it brings such joy?”

“The child is without a match!” Light pulsed angrily, furious with Darkness’ carelessness. “She is one soul extra, doomed to wander the Earth in vain for a complement that does not exist! She must be struck down lest she upset the matches we’ve predetermined.”

“I will craft a soul to match hers!” Darkness exclaimed, desperate to prevent Light from snatching away the King and Queen’s newly bestowed joy, “Do not strike her down. Let her sleep while I work; when her complement is ready, I will send them to find her and rouse her from slumber.”

And so, on her tenth birthday, the young princess fell into a deep sleep. The King and Queen were concerned at first, but the medics and High Priestess eased their worries and together they made the princess comfortable until her soul match came to wake her.

A cycle was born. Unable to resist meddling altogether, Darkness returned every few decades to gift another soul to a grieving King and Queen. If Darkness spent the next several years in solitude, diligently crafting a new soul match, Light need not be any the wiser.

— 

The old story had taken many forms in its various retellings through the generations. 

In some versions, the sleeping princess was guarded by a fearsome dragon; in others, the princess had been cursed to sleep for one hundred years by an evil witch. There was even a version wherein the princess’s soulmate had to prove themselves by freeing a sword from a stone. Luckily—or perhaps _un_ luckily, depending who was asked—the reality was generally _much_ less adventurous than any of the old fairy tales made it out to be. 

Still, each retelling had one notable thing in common: the sleeping princess and the person who woke her always fell madly, deeply in love.

And of all the frightening circumstances he’d heard about or imagined for himself, none terrified Castiel more than the idea of falling in love with a person he’d never met.

Were he anyone else, if his circumstances did not dictate that his future and the future of his people depended on his successful return, he might be tempted to damn the stories and forge his own path ahead. Only a very select few people were granted divine indication that they’d found their soulmate; for most, there was simply no telling. Some went through many partners in search of their perfect match while others actively remained chaste until they’d decided on a suitor, but in both cases there was no way to be certain.

Many mourned the uncertainty, wondering forlornly at the idea that there was someone better, someone _more_ , for them out there in the wild world. Try as he might to sympathize, Castiel couldn’t help but envy that quandary, for to him it felt rather like freedom. Freedom to choose who he loved, freedom to choose to love in the first place.

Alas, the glass vial hanging around his neck spoke of a different path. Castiel brought a hand to it for a moment, feeling its warmth under his palm. At his touch, it shivered minutely, the contents inside active in a way that seemed almost sentient.

Perhaps it was insulted by his apprehension.

“Your grace?”

Castiel shook himself from his thoughts, removing his hand from the vial and extending it to take the proffered reigns of his horse.

“Thank you, Inias.”

Inias bowed low, formal as always. Castiel stepped up into the stirrup and swung his other leg cleanly over the back of his stallion, settling into the saddle. Beneath him, the beast snorted and tossed his head.

“Safe travels, Castiel,” bid the Queen. 

Castiel smiled reassuringly at his mother. Queen Naomi stood poised and elegant, every bit the picture of reticent, graceful leadership, but Castiel was not so easily fooled. Behind closed doors the night before, Naomi had fretted and fussed over him as any loving mother would.

The hidden plea that he keep safe and act wisely in the lines of the Queen’s face fortified him against the persistent, nagging worry about his fate, and Castiel turned resolutely forward in his saddle, kicking his horse into a trot.

Regardless of however many versions there were of the stories he’d heard as a child, regardless of which parts were accurate or not, one inarguable truth persisted: Princess Hannah was very much real and very much asleep, and Castiel was destined to wake her.

However his heart might balk, his duty was first and foremost to his kingdom as their prince, to Princess Hannah as her divinely chosen soulmate, and to his mother as her son. Castiel could—and _would_ —see the legend through.

It would only be much later that Castiel would find it odd that none of the stories he’d been told ever mentioned the Princess’ caretaker.


	2. Chapter 2

Magnificent illustrations accompanied the generations-old tales housed in the well-loved book in his castle’s library. Castiel had traced them with curious fingers as a boy, covering the delicate lines and whorls of color with phantom images of his own as his father’s smooth, rumbling voice recited stories. To this day, he heard the words in his late father’s voice whenever he lost himself in the book; sometimes, when cold wind shook the window panes and made the candles dance, Castiel could feel the warmth of his father’s arm around his midsection, as though the King were still trying to hoist his overzealous child back into the safety of his lap.

Castiel had suspected that the paintings, like the stories they supplemented, were embellished in places, and was therefore taken mildly by surprise two days later when a stone tower loomed into view over the tops of the trees, looking every bit like its painted replica. In fact, so exact was the structure ahead that Castiel wondered dimly whether the painting had instead served as a model.

His horse snuffled at him when he dismounted and Castiel hushed him with a comforting pat before making his way towards the lone building. The forest encircling the clearing was still and quiet in the dappled, late afternoon sunlight, as though even the trees themselves knew the sacred nature of this place.

The weathered stone was cool to the touch and Castiel laughed under his breath at his own silliness; after years of tracing the paintings, he had mistakenly expected the stone to feel like paper. He let his fingers tangle gently in the verdant ivy that sprawled upwards along the wall as he made his way around the curve of the edifice. A third of the way around he came upon a wooden door; distantly he wondered if he’d need his smaller tools to unlock it, but when he gave an experimental tug the heavy door creaked open without much resistance.

Specific details of what he might find beyond the entrance were unhelpfully absent from the stories, but Castiel might have expected dust or damp or vermin, something to indicate the passage of time. Princess Hannah had been asleep for the last ten years, after all, frozen in place until Castiel had come of age. And yet, the flagstones were free of debris, the air fresh and cool.

Other than the cleanliness, the inside was unremarkable; at present, the circular space was lit only by the light spilling in from narrow windows far above his head, although unlit torches sat in modest sconces along the walls. Curiously, above each torch was a scorch mark, a sign that these torches had not only been lit recently, but were lit often. To his left, a winding staircase began and twisted upwards, curving along with the tower; presumably, that led to Princess Hannah. Just before the first step, the wall dipped sharply outwards to form an alcove, but from his current angle he couldn’t tell whether it housed anything.

Castiel swallowed, apprehensive. Had someone else sought to wake the Princess? Their efforts would have been futile, of course; she would wake for no one but Castiel. Still, his blood turned to ice at the thought of Princess Hannah, unaware and unprotected, prone to a faceless monster intent on committing unspeakable crimes. His hand went to the hilt of his sword and he listened carefully.

Slowly, he moved towards the staircase, willing his steps to fall lightly. Every noise he made seemed magnified, from his breath to the jostling of his riding gear. The bottom step was mere feet away.

Only by the good grace of his creators was he spared an untimely decapitation when a sword swung near-silently out of the alcove, halting so close to his neck that Castiel dared not swallow for fear of sending the cold, foreboding edge into his skin. The glistening sword retracted, scraping menacingly along the corner of the alcove, and Castiel lept back and drew his own sword at last.

The sword-wielder stepped slowly, ominously out of the alcove, his expression severe and determined. Bright, alert eyes assessed Castiel thoroughly, his stance aggressive and ready for battle. Though he wore no suit of armour, the familiarity with which he handled his weapon spoke of years of experience with a blade. In fact, his dress suggested a person of moderate wealth—his clothes were clean, his sword polished, and the chainmail wrapped securely across his shoulders and breastbone looked worth several gold coins at least—but his movements were far too fluid to be the result of a nobleman’s rigid, formal training.

“Identify yourself,” Castiel commanded, holding the man’s gaze. Neither his voice nor the ornamentation on his clothes that announced his royal status seemed to cow his opponent, however. Much to Castiel’s annoyance, the other man smirked as though he found Castiel amusing.

“By order of the western throne, I command you: name yourself!” Castiel tried again, his patience tested.

This time, the man laughed lowly, flipping his sword so that the hilt danced across his knuckles until it made a full revolution.

“You command me, do you?” he spoke at last, voice deep and intimidating, “You are not the first to invoke the royal family of the west. Take your stance, and we’ll see if you are any better trained than the others.”

Castiel was granted no more time than it took him to adjust his position before the other man lunged at him, sword sweeping downwards at an angle. Caught off guard, Castiel raised his own sword just in time to block the blow. Olivine eyes glimmered at him over the connected metal and Castiel scowled, stepping away and drawing his arm back to strike, but his swing came too late. His opponent had already twirled skillfully to his left, forcing Castiel to change course at the last second to parry a jab that would otherwise have slid between his ribs.

Three near-misses later, Castiel cursed the palace trainers under his breath for his clearly inadequate education. In his frustration his form grew sloppy, his thrusts ill-aimed. The other swordsman perspired but otherwise displayed no signs of fatigue; the likeliness of a favorable outcome for Castiel dwindled rapidly.

When the other man danced into his line of sight—infuriatingly light-footed for all that he matched Castiel in stature—Castiel lunged forward with a roar, worried for himself and for Princess Hannah and desperate to land a blow. His opponent bounced to the side with a reproachful tut; before Castiel could collect himself and face him once more, a solid heel struck at the backs of his legs, sending his knees to the unforgiving stone floor. Without so much as a second for Castiel to blink away the pain, the swordsman flicked his blade against the side of Castiel’s throat, warning him not to rise.

The metal was cold but the shame that accompanied it burned over Castiel like fire. Humiliation and regret made him grind his teeth so hard his jaw began to ache. Some rescuer he was; unable to protect the Princess from even a single blackguard and therefore perfectly deserving of what was surely his imminent demise.

“You kept up with me well,” the man remarked from behind him, “but overall, your swordsmanship is lacking.” The words were spoken conversationally, consideringly, as though they were old friends instead vanquisher and vanquished. “Identify yourself,” he urged next, tone more stern.

Castiel glared down at the first step of the winding staircase before him, breathing deeply and gathering the remaining withered scraps of his pride, determined not to die a coward.

“I am Prince Castiel, son of King Charles and Queen Naomi and heir to the western throne,” Castiel spoke clearly, “Princess Hannah is my divinely chosen match; I intend to wake her and bring her back to my home.”

A scoff sounded behind him. “Am I to take you at your word? Prove it.” The sword dug threateningly into his neck and Castiel hissed as it broke the skin. Slowly, so as not to cause alarm, he moved both hands to tug at the strip of leather around his neck until the glass vial under his tunic came free. He offered it for the other man to see, clutching it tightly in his fist.

The swordsman’s breath hitched. Perhaps the severity of the situation had finally occurred to him, now that he knew who he held at knifepoint.

The sound of his own heartbeat grew thunderous as the silence stretched around them. Then, abruptly, the sword was withdrawn.

“Stand,” his opponent commanded gruffly.

Haltingly, wincing at his bruised knees, Castiel stood. When he made no further attempts to move, a hand grabbed at his shoulder and pulled until he spun about. To his immense shock, the other man stood in front of him with wide eyes, sword already sheathed, producing a matching glass vial from a small pouch at his hip.

They stared dumbly at one another, eyes flickering intermittently between vials and faces. The contents of the unfamiliar vial matched those of Castiel’s almost exactly, except that where his glowed faintly blue, the other boasted an iridescent shine that shifted minutely between purple and green.

“...Hannah?” Castiel asked numbly, more barely-formed thought than actual question.

The man opposite him sneered, his features twisting into something akin to incredulous exasperation.

“Han—For the creators’ sake, do I _look_ like a sleeping princess to you?”

“I—what? Of course not,” Castiel bit back, flushing slightly. He had largely outgrown his unfortunate habit of voicing things before his thoughts had caught up with him, but every now and again it resurfaced to haunt him. “Why do you have Princess Hannah’s grace?”

“The princess is my charge.” The swordsman peered down at the vial around his neck, encircling the glass with careful, protective fingers. “Just as she is bound to sleep until her soul match comes to wake her, so too am I bound to stand guard at her side. By the will of the creators, a Winchester has always looked after the eastern throne.”

Castiel remained silent, considering. The name Winchester was very distantly familiar to him, as though he’d overheard it in a dream. He was quite certain, however, that the stories of his and the Princess’ destined meeting made no mention of a guard, Winchester or otherwise.

Or—now that he thought more closely about it, perhaps a few of them _did_ , albeit indirectly. At least one retelling involved a fearsome dragon standing between the adventurer and their sleeping mate. In that version, the dragon was meant to be vanquished as proof of character. But maybe he had been wrong to interpret that literally; maybe the dragon was much more symbolic than the illustrations suggested.

“Are you...” Castiel started, searching green eyes intently when they rose to meet his own, “...a dragon?” It was admittedly difficult to be sure in the fading late-afternoon light spilling in from the windows, but these eyes lacked the cold, calculating emptiness he might have expected to find in a dragon’s greedy stare.

The other man blinked slowly at him. Then, much to Castiel’s surprise, he threw his head back with a shout of laughter.

“A dragon!” he exclaimed mirthfully, tucking Princess Hannah’s vial back inside its pocket. “I admit, some days my temper is worse than others, especially after too much ale— ” He chuckled again, eyes alight with glee now, “—but none have accused me of being a fire-breathing beast. Not directly, at least.”

Castiel shifted his weight, uncertain whether he was being laughed at or with. Although, he supposed, laughter was preferable to ire. Belatedly, he tugged the neckline of his tunic out to stow his vial away once more. The swordsman’s gaze flicked briefly downwards to track the movement and then rose back to Castiel’s, cheerful and resolute.

“Come,” he said, guiding Castiel with an amicable hand on his shoulder, “Surely the Princess is plenty well-rested by now.”

Castiel snorted at the wry comment, allowing himself to be turned towards the staircase at last. It was nearly dark out, now; late enough that sunlight no longer found its way to them at the bottom of the tower, but still too early for moonlight to offer any aid. The large hand of his companion left his shoulder as they passed the little alcove to the left.

“What are you called?” Castiel asked as the man ducked into the alcove, “Besides ‘Winchester’?”

“Dean,” the man replied, pulling out a long torch and a tinderbox, the former of which he handed to Castiel.

“Dean,” Castiel parroted, obligingly holding the torch out for Dean to light. It flared brightly before settling to a softer glow, enshrouding a small space around them in flickering orange warmth. Dean made a sound of confirmation. He took the torch back from Castiel and together they began their ascent, pausing briefly now and again to light the torches along the wall as they went.

There was silence save for the gentle echo of footfalls against stone and the crackling of kindling as each new torch was coaxed to life. Dean’s unexpected presence and their subsequent battle had distracted Castiel from his worries, but now his heart hammered in his chest. He was here, truly here at last, to fulfill the first parts of his long foretold destiny. In a matter of minutes, he would lay eyes on his soulmate for the first time, would kiss her awake and fall madly, deeply in love. A part of him was sincerely excited at the prospect.

But there was another part—the part of him that wondered dubiously about the practicalities of loving someone based on nothing more than prophecy, the part that knew the well-being of his family and his kingdom and Princess Hannah’s kingdom depended on a successful union—that was anxious and fearful to set his fate in motion.

What if he did not find Princess Hannah suitable?

What if Princess Hannah did not find _him_ suitable?

For a brief moment, Castiel longed to be a child again, sitting in his father’s lap and listening to fairy tales.

When at last they reached the top of the steps, Dean set his torch in the empty bracket beside an unassuming wooden door. He produced a key from another pouch hidden in the folds of his clothes and inserted it slowly, reverently. The wards clanged dully as the key was turned, and then the door creaked as it was pushed open.

Castiel took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold.

The nearly-translucent canopy encircling the bed was soft under his fingertips when he pushed it aside. Castiel stepped onto the raised platform, letting the gossamer curtains flutter lazily back into place behind him as he gazed at the sleeping woman before him. 

Princess Hannah lay clothed in a white frock, though the folds of her skirt were hidden beneath a bedspread of rich, amethyst velvet. Gentle hands crossed delicately over her midsection and a thin silver chain sat around her neck, tapering to a point a few inches below the neckline of her gown. Through the canopy, the torchlight was softer but no less bright where it fell warmly against lovely, soft features. Dark chocolate tresses framed her face and fell around her shoulders, contrasting prettily with her healthy complexion. She was incredibly, undeniably beautiful.

Briefly he looked up, intending to ask Dean for privacy, only to find that Dean had already respectfully faced away. Placated, he returned his attention to the sleeping princess.

There was no furrow to her brow, no signs of distress or discomfort; she looked utterly at peace. Castiel smiled softly, feeling a little more peaceful himself.

Though still present, his doubts and worries eased the nearer he drew, temporarily brushed away by certainty and serenity. Inexplicably, as Castiel covered Princess Hannah’s soft, red lips gently, chastely with his own, he knew in his very bones that everything would fall into place, one way or another.

After a moment he pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against Princess Hannah’s and wondering what was meant to happen next. Before enough time could pass for him to grow worried, Castiel felt her breathing change as she stirred, returning to consciousness at long last. In an effort to avoid startling her he put more space between them, watching dark eyelashes flutter briefly.

Eyes as crystal clear as the oasis back home blinked up at him slowly. A small hand cupped his cheek, as though to ascertain that he was not a figment of the imagination. Castiel leaned against her, surprised that the affectionate gesture made him feel calm and safe, where, in any other situation, he would likely feel awkward and uncomfortable.

“Castiel?” Princess Hannah asked, voice barely above a whisper, sounding awestruck. Castiel nodded, offering a small smile. She returned it, stroking a thumb softly over his cheekbone.

Abruptly, her eyes widened and she sat up, forcing Castiel to step back lest their foreheads collide. Princess Hannah laughed breathily, watching as she wiggled her fingers and smoothed her palms over her own frock and the velvet bedspread. 

“I’m awake,” she said, disbelieving, “I’m awake!” Smiling beatifically, she reached up and clutched tightly to him, laughing and sobbing words of gratitude against his shoulder. Castiel held her close, offering confirmation that he was indeed real when she insisted that he do so.

“I apologize,” she said between watery giggles a while later, “There was no way to know how long it would be before you woke me.” She pulled away from him, swiping her fingers underneath her eyes to brush away her tears of relief. “It was far more frightening than I had guessed—falling asleep wondering if I would wake the next morning—” A fresh tear spilled down her cheek. “Oh, I’m so happy you’re here. I’m so happy to be awake.”

“I’m happy too,” Castiel said honestly, offering her his hand. She took it, shifting to put her bare feet on the ground and standing slowly, carefully, testing her weight. “I’ve been told the stories—our story—since boyhood,” he told her, “though I’m afraid they’re rather lacking in their retellings of your perspective. You’re very brave, Princess.”

She wrinkled her nose good-naturedly. “I am Princess to nearly everyone,” she said, pushing the canopy aside and stepping properly into the room. “To you, I would very much like to just be Hannah.”

They turned in unison towards the sound of boots scuffing stone. Castiel had entirely forgotten that Dean was in the room with them. He still faced the door, but it was clear that he felt restless.

Hannah approached Dean slowly, placing a hand gently on his arm once she was in reach. Dean turned to face her, wearing an expression of forced stoicism. For a moment, they simply regarded one another, and then Dean bowed low.

“Your Majesty.” The words were deferential but clipped, tight with the same purposeful seriousness.

In response, Hannah swept into a deep, graceful curtsey. “Sir Dean of Winchester,” she returned, tone equally severe.

Perplexed, Castiel watched the two warily, wondering if he should step in to diffuse whatever strange tension had suddenly materialized. Dean was Hannah’s guard, was he not? Downstairs, he had spoken of her as though she were someone he cared for, but it would not be the first time Castiel had misunderstood. Perhaps there was a generations-old feud between their families?

He needn’t have worried; a moment later they both dissolved into peals of laughter, all traces of cold formality eclipsed as Dean picked Hannah up and spun her in a circle, squeezing her tight once he had let her down.

“I missed you, Hannah,” Dean said into her hair.

“Castiel, you’ve already met Dean, of course,” Hannah said as she approached him again, this time with Dean in tow. “We grew up together; even as a boy, he was overprotective. You must be well-versed with a sword, to have bested him.”

Dean snorted. “ _I_ bested _him_ ,” he amended proudly, crossing his arms over his chest and smirking.

Castiel’s face grew hot with embarrassment, but no good would come from lying. “There is...room for improvement in my technique,” he admitted grudgingly. Hannah patted him on the arm, looking sympathetic but not disappointed.

“The only reason I spared him was because he carries a grace vial,” Dean went on. “Speaking of which—” He retrieved the iridescent vial from its pouch and offered it to Hannah. Smiling, she tugged it free of the leather cord it hung by and with practiced fingers hooked it to the silver chain around her neck.

“Thank you for looking after it. And me.” Hannah smiled gratefully at Dean even as he flushed and reached up to scratch the back of his neck. It was the first time since his arrival that Castiel had seen Dean look timid.

“It was my duty,” Dean said, more to the floor than to Hannah, “but I would have done so regardless.” He returned her fond smile.

The smile slipped slowly from Hannah’s face, replaced by trepidation and perhaps a little guilt. “Dean…” She glanced at Castiel, but he had no answer for the question behind her eyes. “It may be unfair of me to ask any more of you, but I must; will you accompany me to the western kingdom?” 

Dean’s eyebrows rose in surprise; whatever he might have anticipated, it had clearly not been that. Castiel was certain he wore a very similar expression. Practically speaking, if Dean was prepared to join them, Castiel could see no reason that he should deny Hannah a companion from her former life. After all, legend dictated that upon waking she was meant to return to Castiel’s home, not her own. Still, he could not recall any instance of a matched pair returning with a third in tow.

“Do you worry for your safety?” Dean asked, eyes shifting to scrutinize Castiel anew.

“Your obligations as my caretaker are more than fulfilled,” Hannah amended quickly, “I ask this of you not as your Princess, but as a dear friend. It would bring me great comfort to see a familiar face in a foreign land.”

Castiel was quickly coming to admire the genuine way Hannah communicated; where others—himself included—were wont to stumble over or dance around their vulnerabilities, their gazes pulled downwards by guilt or shame, Hannah spoke openly and honestly, head held high.

The reddened tips of his ears gave Dean away as being much more similar to Castiel than Hannah, in this regard. Lips parted slightly, but closed again without forming any words. The slight furrow at his brow suggested an internal debate.

The silence between them—Dean’s considering, Hannah’s cautiously hopeful, Castiel’s curious—stretched on until at last, Dean’s expression softened.

“Of course I will,” he said, his small smile growing at Hannah’s sound of delight, “I’d be honored.” She hugged him again, wrapping her arms around his middle and squeezing tight. Castiel smiled with them, glad for Hannah’s happiness.

“Besides,” Dean added, winking easily at Castiel over the top of Hannah’s head, “someone should really teach your Prince to use a sword properly.”


	3. Chapter 3

_ Sam _ ,

_ I hope my absence from home has not caused undue alarm. Please assure mother of my continued well-being and safety. Let father know too, I suppose, if you manage to catch him at a point of lucidity.  _

_ Everyone will be pleased to know that Princess Hannah has, at long last, awoken from her slumber. At her request, I have accompanied her to the western kingdom so that she need not drown in a sea of foreign faces. She too is safe and well cared for. There have been murmurs of plans for a wedding and the Unity Ceremony, though as far as I know an official date has not yet been set. Keep an eye out for an announcement; I suspect Hannah would be thrilled for you and anyone else to attend, if the western throne will allow it. Truthfully, I’d be glad to have you here too. _

_ Prince Castiel is an interesting sort. I’ve been watching him closely since we arrived a few days ago; he’s a bit reticent, save for the very amusing few times he accidentally eats his own foot, but I think Hannah will help him relax into more of a conversationalist in time. If not, perhaps I’ll take him into town to loosen his lips with drink. From what little I do know of him, he seems to be a decent, reasonable person. Worry not, though; I intend to keep watching in case he harbors some secret ill-intent towards our Princess. _

_ One flaw in him is confirmed; I absolutely despair of his swordsmanship. His form is decent, I suppose, but his movements are so obvious a scullery maid could predict them. Bobby always said that royals rarely think beyond their fancy instruction manuals. _

_ I hope all is well at home. Stay out of trouble. _

_ Dean _

_ P.S. Before you arrive for the ceremony, consider cutting those long locks of yours lest people mistake you for Prince Castiel’s new bride. _

— 

Castiel had never consciously considered the possibility that Hannah might not be well received by his people until watching her interact successfully with everyone lifted a weight from his shoulders, allowing him room to breathe a little easier. Queen Naomi was immediately charmed by Hannah’s gentle and insightful nature and stole her away daily to chat about current events over a cup of tea. Hannah was equally pleasant and respectful to noblemen and castle staff alike, and Castiel had even seen her encourage the guards as they took turns sparring with Dean. 

He had also never, consciously or otherwise, wondered whether or not  _ Dean _ would be well-received. But Dean too had been welcomed by all with equally open, if surprised and a bit confused, arms. Though not as readily candid as Hannah, he was easy-going and personable, and a fearsome swordsman to boot; the other guards took to him especially fast, offering an allyship that Dean accepted eagerly. Charming smiles and subtle flattery made up for whatever he might have otherwise lacked, though whether or not he was aware of the effect this behavior had on people remained a mystery.

Hannah was incredibly beautiful, but something about Dean’s attractive features and roguish nature seemed to leave people—mostly women, although the stable boy had turned so red when Dean winked at him that Castiel had worried he might combust—particularly starstruck.

The ease with which they adjusted to their new circumstances was admirable, although every now and again Castiel did wonder if either of them longed for their own kingdom when none were around to see.

“Do you miss your home?” he asked Hannah one night, when his curiosity finally got the better of him. He left a finger tucked in the pages of his book to hold his place, lowering it into his lap.

To his delight, Hannah shared his penchant for revelling in fantastic stories for hours at a time. On most nights they retreated to the library together, sometimes taking turns reading aloud from the same book, other times choosing their own paths and getting lost amidst fictional worlds with only the candle light and comfortable silence as their backdrop.

Hannah tore her eyes reluctantly from her current book, blinking at him as she registered his question. She hummed thoughtfully.

“Sometimes,” she admitted, “but it’s difficult to say for sure.”

Castiel’s puzzlement must have shown in his expression, because Hannah laughed quietly and turned to face him properly.

“Whenever I think of home, I wonder if I miss things because I truly miss them, or because I long for an idealized, distantly remembered version,” she elaborated. “I went to sleep a child and woke up ten years later a woman. Looking at myself in the mirror, seeing someone who is recognizable in many ways but wholly unfamiliar in many others, is still a little jarring. I’m reminded then more than ever that the world carried on while I slept.”

Castiel frowned, suddenly struck with an aching sadness for Hannah’s lost time, but she shushed him. 

“Please don’t despair for me; I grew up knowing our story too, after all.” Hannah reached to rub his arm soothingly and Castiel mirrored her small smile, trying to push the more heartbreaking thoughts aside for now. “I only mean to say that in ten years, people change. Things change, places change. I have no doubts that I would be welcomed home with open arms, but I suspect it would be just as strange an experience as looking at myself in the mirror. Perhaps someday, I will feel ready to visit home.”

Castiel nodded, appeased. Then, hurriedly before Hannah could get lost in her pages again, “And Dean? Does he miss home?”

Hannah smiled again, wistfully now. “He’s far too self-sacrificing to say so outright, for fear I might feel guilty for asking him to come here. But yes, I know he does. He writes his younger brother often.”

“We’ll extend an invitation to the ceremony,” Castiel said, decisively, “If you give me a list of everyone you or Dean might like to have present, I’ll see to it myself.”

Hannah placed her smaller hand on top of his where it rested on the arm of his chair, squeezing gently. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, “That would make him—and me—very happy.”

Castiel took great pleasure in his new friendships with Hannah and Dean. He had made many friends growing up whom he valued dearly, but never before had he felt so free to indulge in his own interests, no matter how inane. Being royalty herself, Hannah did not treat him with the hesitation other people sometimes did, which made Castiel feel less prince and more person. 

Dean, for his part, seemed thoroughly unwilling to waste energy caring about Hannah or Castiel’s status, or his own relative to either of them. Able as he was to adhere to an appropriate degree of decorum in public, he never shied away from countering Castiel’s opinions with his own, dissenting or otherwise. Honorifics were used only when he meant to tease.

In fact, so thoroughly was he enjoying their company that it took him until the middle of the third week to realize that since the tower, Castiel had not so much as pecked Hannah on the cheek.

Perhaps he could have chalked it up to his long-seated skepticism about falling in love with a stranger, except that referring to Hannah as such now, even in his own head, felt wildly insulting. So then, why had he felt no inclination to pursue her in the ways a lover might?

Nerves, he supposed. He lacked any significant real world experience to draw from outside of the few instances of rushed, experimental touches in his younger years. Most of what he knew of romance came from books.

Selfishly, petulantly, Castiel could not help but direct some of his frustration at those very books themselves. Somehow, it felt as though a promise made to him had been broken. In stories, romantic love was such a powerful, visceral, thing, something all-encompassing that produced a deep need for closeness and intimacy, something people killed for and died for. 

He cared for Hannah deeply, he knew, but he did not yearn for her the way he might have expected to, given that they were a divine match, and the knowledge left him feeling underwhelmed and disheartened.

It did not escape him, of course, that Hannah had also given no indication that she desired more intimacy than they already had—insofar as he had noticed, anyway. That said, maybe she was just waiting for Castiel to sweep her off her feet and court her properly.

Castiel wished he had had a tutor in this area, but dwelling bitterly on the unchangeable past would do little to help his situation. A tried and true method of his own would have to do; ever since he was old enough to ride, a relaxed meander through the woods with only his stallion and his own thoughts for company had proven a useful environment for sorting out pressing problems. Thus, when the queen next summoned Hannah for a cup of tea, Castiel summoned the stable boy and asked him to prepare Continental for a ride.

There were few people on his usual path today. All the better for focusing on the issues at hand, though; his horse knew his desired route well enough to carry on with little instruction.

Halfway to the forest a gentle nicker roused him from his musings, but Continental only seemed to be greeting an approaching dog and its master. Castiel inclined his head as the man passed, patting Continental’s neck absently, but before he could return to his thoughts, movement much further down the path drew his eye.

The horse, he recognized; Impala was a sleek, black mare with a reputation for being quite picky about her riders. It was not uncommon to see Sir Bartholomew leaving her paddock, swearing and stomping, after yet another unsuccessful attempt to persuade Impala to cooperate with him. Castiel was therefore surprised and rather impressed to find Dean sitting astride her, both of them looking perfectly at ease with the arrangement. Dean stole a quick glance around himself—though why he thought that necessary, Castiel couldn’t guess—before leading Impala past the treeline and into the forest. 

It was quite rare to find Dean separated from Hannah by any meaningful distance. Hannah had even requested that Dean be housed across the hall from her chambers instead of in the guest wing Castiel had suggested. Curious, Castiel nudged his own horse into a slightly more brisk stride.

The official path gradually dissolved away past the forest entrance, leaving wanderers to keep track of their own trails. Ahead and to his right, Dean’s chainmail glinted in the dappled sunlight. With enough distance between them that his presence could be explained away as coincidence, Castiel followed.

Gradually, the colors of the forest around him grew more vibrant, the air more crisp, a telltale sign that the kingdom’s famed oasis was not far off. Castiel wondered if that was Dean’s intended destination; one of the other guards had likely mentioned it to him. Locals loved to boast to foreign visitors about the blue waters that stretched half a mile in all directions, surrounded by plants in every color imaginable. According to legend, the oasis had been a gift from the creators, a beautiful meditative place where one might find peace in an otherwise weary world. Some even claimed the water offered minor health benefits.

When Castiel saw Dean pass the small wooden sign proclaiming that the oasis was just ahead to the northeast, he smiled knowingly and brought Continental to a stop in a small field of clovers. Eager to see Dean’s uninterrupted reaction to the incredible scenery, he left his horse to graze happily and closed the rest of the distance on foot, arriving just in to see Dean’s slack-jawed expression at the sight before him.

Feeling proud of his kingdom’s bounty, Castiel crept quietly as close as he dared, keeping himself concealed behind the trunk of a mighty oak tree.

Once his initial awe had subsided, Dean nudged Impala close to the series of large wooden panels that bore an abbreviated version of the legend surrounding the oasis. He dismounted swiftly and made quick work of securing the mare’s reigns around one of the posts. As he turned away, Impala whinnied cheerfully at him, bumping her nose against his shoulder until he smiled and reached up to stroke her snout. Castiel smirked, imagining the ugly expression he was certain would contort Bartholomew’s face were he here to see Impala being so affectionate towards a comparative stranger.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it sweetheart?” Dean said, just barely loud enough for Castiel to hear. Impala snuffled agreeably.

For a moment he simply stood, arms crossed, and observed the glittering waters. Castiel smiled, appreciating the view with him.

However reluctantly he acknowledged it, Castiel knew that he should return to the castle soon. Just as he turned to leave, however, Dean stooped to unlace his boots. Castiel watched as he kicked them carelessly off and brought his hands to the belt across his chest next (he knew it housed a short metal dagger inscribed with strange glyphs, but beyond that its contents were unknown), the low _thwip_ of the leather sounding audibly as it was tugged free. Chainmail clinked gently as it joined Dean’s boots, and finally he removed his tunic, baring his chest to the warm sun.

Castiel wondered if Dean meant to go swimming. Spring had certainly sprung, but the air still carried a stubborn winter bite to it.

From his hiding place Castiel traced Dean’s form with his eyes, admiring the broadness of his shoulders and the slight taper at his waist. Sunlight fell against him in such a way that his muscle definition was dramaticized, although Castiel was certain someone of Dean’s proficiency with a blade did not need tricks of the light to lend him the appearance of intimidating strength. However much Dean might mock him for his inferior swordsmanship, Castiel was no stranger to the effort required to learn to weild a weapon in any meaningful way.

Distracted by the sudden gold hue of Dean’s usually light brown hair, Castiel failed to realize that Dean was undoing the ties of his breeches until far too late. In one swift motion Dean pushed the fabric down his legs and stepped out of them, unknowingly revealing himself to his hidden audience. Castiel tore his eyes away in a belated attempt to offer privacy, but only seconds later he sought Dean’s form again, sweeping his gaze indulgently over the swell of his backside before he could stop himself.

His breath left him in a rush. While Dean’s imposing build came as no shock, he was also surprisingly _supple_ in places Castiel might not have guessed him to be. Referring to Dean in such terms felt rather silly—Castiel was sure he would balk at the descriptor—but try as he might, he could conjure no sufficient alternatives. Tough and assertive though he might otherwise be, in this setting, in this context, he looked soft and warm and inviting. Tempting.

Castiel swallowed thickly, aware that there was no reason for his continued presence. He should return to Continental and ride back to the castle, leaving Dean and all knowledge of his nakedness behind in the forest. The purpose of this excursion had initially been to sort out his feelings for Hannah, after all.

And yet, as Dean toed curiously at the edge of the radiant blue water before wading a few steps in, Castiel lowered himself slowly to the forest floor, arranging himself to sit comfortably as he watched.

Dean’s eyebrows rose in surprised delight as he took surer strides into the oasis; Castiel guessed the reaction was owed to the ever-perfect temperature of the water. Regardless of the season, the oasis was always just warm or cool enough to complement the weather.

When he was out far enough that the water lapped at his tail bone, Dean paused and let his fingertips trail gently along the surface, looking pensive. Castiel shifted his weight, leaning slightly forward around the trunk of the tree, and to his horror a small branch broke under his knee. Though the forest was by no means silent, the snap was a thunderous echo to his ears, announcing his hiding spot.

Dean peered curiously over his shoulder and Castiel held his breath, wanting desperately to conceal himself further behind the oak tree but worried that any movement would give him away. At last, Dean seemed to decide that he was under no threat and turned back out to the water, leaving Castiel unnoticed.

When he returned to the castle, Castiel really ought to visit the temple and offer his gratitude to the creators for their mercy.

Water rippled and purled around Dean as he sank low into the oasis and drove himself forward in an easy glide. At the apex of the next stroke he vanished fully from Castiel’s sight, only to break the surface a few moments later, sodden hair stuck flat to his scalp. For a few minutes he swam back and forth lazily; Castiel allowed himself to be lulled into a meditative state as he tracked the ripples and whorls that appeared in his wake.

Eventually Dean turned towards the shore, submerging himself once more before standing properly and wading slowly through the water. A quick shake of his head later, his hair stood more naturally in wet spikes. Castiel was pulled from his peaceful stupor by the rivulet of water that sluiced over the edge of Dean’s sharp jaw and down the side of his neck, collecting in his collarbone before spilling over anew. He let his gaze linger on the black ink decorating Dean’s left pectoral—the crest of the Winchesters, Castiel guessed—before sweeping appreciatively over the rest of his torso, struck again by how the slight softness of his stomach belied the underlying strength and agility he’d known Dean to operate with.

Castiel realized his mistake too late as the water droplet he’d been tracing passed Dean’s navel and rejoined the cool blue below. Water fell away from smooth skin as Dean continued towards shore, revealing slim hips and then the vee of his groin, and in between one blink and the next Dean was bared to him properly, his nakedness glorious against the shimmering, fantastic backdrop that was the oasis. Warmth pooled low in Castiel’s gut the longer he stared, the front of his breeches gradually pulling taut over the evidence of his arousal.

Once back at the pile of his discarded clothes, Dean gave a quick, lazy stretch and smoothed his palms over his skin, ridding iit of excess water. He gave his shaft a gentle squeeze when he reached it—a perfunctory gesture, Castiel knew, but his own engorged piece twitched where it pressed hotly against his thigh nonetheless—before reaching to scoop his trousers from the ground. He bent again, fingering at his tunic this time, but reconsidered. Instead of dressing further, he turned to walk a short way along the water’s edge until he came upon the large tree that grew outwards over the oasis.

This particular tree’s twisting, low branches often served visitors well as a sort of vantage point to look out at the view, and that appeared to be Dean’s intention now. Cautiously, he navigated himself along the trunk, stopping at the furthest point that would reliably hold his weight. Another branch crossed in front of him—more spindly but still reasonably substantial as a support hold—and he wrapped his hand around it lowering himself down to the wood. Now that he was seated, his support landed conveniently at chest height; he crossed his arms and let them rest on this second branch.

There he stayed, limbs slackened in repose and gaze directed outwards over the oasis as the sun dried him. Every so often, Dean would swing the leg that dangled off the side of the tree trunk lazily back and forth, the tips of his toes just barely skimming the surface of the water.

Never before had Castiel so acutely felt the gap in himself that might have been occupied by artistic talent, had he any to speak of. Where his arousal had previously throbbed insistently, begging for his attention, it now smoothed out around the edges until it was a warm buzz underneath his skin. 

Dean had lovely features, of course, and Castiel had seen them express many things—anger, cockiness, wittiness, resolve—but never before had he seen the lines of Dean’s face soften so completely. With his guard down and no one to impress (that Dean knew of), he let the beauty and bounty of his surroundings lull him into a state of true tranquility, leaving his unseen onlooker utterly transfixed.

Eventually, Dean let his cheek rest upon his crossed arms. The sunlight swept warmly over him, highlighting the gold in his hair and accentuating the slight, natural upturn in the corner of his mouth. Though he was too far away to see them now, Castiel could imagine the smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, crafted earlier in Dean’s life by the very same sun. Dazzling eyes blinked lazily, sleepily in his contentment, and Castiel wished he were close enough to see how many shades of green could be found in the refracted light bouncing from below off the water’s surface. He imagined Dean letting him get close enough to sweep his thumb over a freckled cheek or trace the bow of his upper lip, or even kiss against the round of a sun-warmed shoulder.

Castiel swallowed thickly, becoming aware of his own parted mouth and the slightly ragged breath that left him, as he ached with desire once more. It was best that he leave before his luck ran out and Dean discovered him, swollen and wanting, in his hiding place. Slowly, quietly, Castiel rose from the forest floor. With one last look at the tempting vision before him, he turned and made his way back into the forest, leaving Dean and the oasis behind him.

He had hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that the quick walk through the trees would cool his heated blood before he got back to Continental. Alas, the growing distance between himself and Dean only served as an excuse for his imagination to take what he’d seen and add to it without Castiel’s permission. When yet another vision of himself following trails of water down between Dean’s legs with his own fingers bloomed in his mind’s eye, he was forced to admit defeat. Swearing quietly, he ducked behind a nearby tree and leaned against it, sparing only a quick glance around himself for spectators before undoing the ties of his breeches and pushing them out of the way just enough to free himself from their confines.

Castiel exhaled roughly at the first glide of his hand over his swollen cock, his head tipping back against the tree as his eyes fluttered shut. This time, when his lust-addled mind offered the vivid recollection of Dean’s naked form, he accepted it greedily. 

In his imagination, Dean would not only be aware of his presence, but pleased by it. He would beckon Castiel forward into the water, a cheeky, knowing smile on his lips as he took Castiel by the wrists and directed him to flatten his palms against Dean’s chest. Castiel would marvel at the softness of Dean’s skin under his fingertips, dragging his hands across all he could reach.

Castiel brought his hand up to his own mouth where he pressed the flat of his tongue against his palm, wetting it so that when he took hold of himself once more the slide was slicker.

He let himself imagine that the salt on his tongue came not from his own skin but rather from placing open-mouthed kisses over the edge of Dean’s sharp jaw and down one side of his neck, or from mouthing at the dip in his collarbone. Perhaps Dean would let him suck and bite at the skin over his pulse until purple and red bloomed as proof of his ministrations.

He twisted his wrist just slightly at the top of each pull on his length, pausing every few strokes to slide his thumb through the gathered wetness at his tip, smoothing it over the sensitive head.

A new fantasy arose, one in which Dean came across Castiel here, stroking himself in the middle of the woods. Dean would grin at him lasciviously, would wink at him and stop Castiel from covering himself. He’d come close enough to murmur some lewd remark in Castiel’s ear, his own voice rough with arousal. If he were very lucky indeed, Dean would drop to his knees before him, would pull his bottom lip between his teeth and look up at Castiel with hooded, hungry eyes before swallowing him down. 

Castiel had to bite down on his own lip to smother an involuntary whine. He thrust faster into the tight circle of his own fist, overwhelmed by the thought of Dean, red lips stretched wide, cheeks hollowed as he sucked and swallowed wetly around him. 

With one last swipe of his thumb he tumbled over the edge, swearing as he imagined Dean pulling back to lick at the tip of his cock, lapping up what he could as Castiel spilled himself all over Dean’s attractive features. He groaned lowly, giving small, aborted thrusts as the brightest shocks of pleasure zipped up and down his spine. Eventually, with one final shiver, he let his weight sink back against the tree, breathing deeply.

For a few moments he let himself stay there, but soon enough he blinked bleary eyes open and glanced around, thankful to see that he had not attracted any unwanted visitors. He tucked himself back into his trousers and made his way back to his horse at last.

—

Once Continental was being tended to by the stable boy, Castiel returned to the castle quickly in hopes that preparations for dinner had been started. Initially, he had planned to seek out Hannah; although his usual means of working through his troubles had been thwarted, perhaps it was worth at least entertaining the idea of asking Hannah about her expectations of him outright.

However, the reason for his distraction was fresh enough in his mind to give him pause. Hannah would know nothing of Castiel’s experience at the oasis, of course, but the knowledge that he had been lusting after another—Hannah’s _guard_ , no less—while she was none the wiser became a horrid, guilty knot of regret in his chest. His feelings in that moment, and certainly his actions as a result of them, solitary though they may have been, were a betrayal.

He’d set out on his horse in search of the elusive butterflies that, if the stories were to be believed, marked attraction towards whoever had sent them aflutter in his stomach.

Oh, he had found them, alright, but certainly not where he’d meant to. Treacherous things.

Before he could dither further about whether or not to seek out Hannah, a choice was made for him in the form of his mother catching sight of him as he passed the entrance to the castle garden.

“Castiel, there you are!” the Queen called, beckoning him into the garden when he turned towards her.

“Here I am,” he agreed, diverting from his intended path to join his mother amongst the greenery, “Have you been looking for me?”

“We certainly wondered what managed to capture your attention for an entire afternoon.”

“I guessed the library—” Hannah came out from around one of the taller hedges, holding a small vase with an assortment of plucked flowers and looking pleased to see him. “—but you weren’t there either.”

Queen Naomi reached for the vase and Hannah relinquished it to her before turning back to Castiel and offering a conspiratorial wink.

“My next guess was that you had run away to start an illicit relationship with another, younger library.”

The knot of guilt in his chest squeezed tightly at the perceived accusation before the rest of her joke reached him. He laughed weakly, feeling foolish.

“I assure you, though my eyes wander through other books, only one library truly has my heart.”

“Yes, very good,” the Queen interrupted, plenty aware that their silliness would continue if she let it, “Castiel, we’ve been discussing arrangements for the wedding; there are plenty of areas that could do with your input, now that you’re here.” She leaned over the bush next to her, peering critically at the available buds before selecting one and adding it to the vase.

“What wedding?”

“ _Your_ wedding, dear,” Queen Naomi said, exasperated, “For goodness sake, clever as you often are, sometimes I thank the creators that you were blessed with your father’s good looks.”

Hannah giggled at his expense, but Castiel had already dismissed his mother’s familiar sarcasm in favor of turning her first few words over and over in his mind. Though the knot of guilt in his chest had temporarily loosened, a different kind of anxiety was quickly rising to take its place.

His wedding. _Their_ wedding. Castiel considered that he was not nearly as clever as his mother supposed; he knew, of course, that he and Hannah were destined to join their grace in a show of unity between their kingdoms. He also knew that such a ceremony was typically preceded by a grand wedding to recognize and celebrate true love and all its wonders.

And yet, much like his missing romantic inclinations towards Hannah, Castiel had managed to overlook the reality of getting married _himself_. The thought was harrowing.

_Married._ He would be a married man, sworn to love and cherish Hannah as his one true love for the rest of his days. Hannah would be forever joined to him, and he to her. This was meant to be a joyous thing; indeed, most eagerly awaited the day they could wed the one they loved most. 

Why could he feel nothing but apprehension?

“We ought to start the wedding later in the afternoon,” his mother continued, oblivious to his current inner turmoil, “That way, the Unity Ceremony should fall at sunset. Grace shines beautifully in the setting sun.”

“That...sounds wonderful,” Castiel said at length, hoping the strain in his voice was undetectable. Hannah nodded, smiling agreeably, and Castiel studied her, unsure whether he hoped to find reassurance or apprehension or something else entirely. Her features were unusually fixed, offering no answers.

“Her majesty has graciously offered me the services of her personal tailor,” Hannah said, “I’m scheduled for a consultation tomorrow, so that she may start on my gown.”

Disconcerted as he felt, he knew he needed to retain some passable semblance of composure. His trepidation could be explored later, in the solace of his bedchamber.

“Wonderful,” Castiel said again, taking Hannah’s hands in his own. “I have no doubt you’ll look beautiful no matter what gown you wear.” 

Hannah flushed prettily at the compliment, something in her expression relaxing minutely. Beside them, Queen Naomi made an approving sound.

— 

_Dean_ ,

_I wish you’d thought to leave a note at the tower; though he might not admit it, Bobby was terrified to see you both gone. I think he and mother assumed the worst. Nonetheless, I’m glad to hear you are both safe and healthy._

_I do hope to see the western kingdom someday; according to our books, our kingdoms are culturally very similar, but I’d wager there are fascinating minute differences hidden amongst everyday customs that are unique to our kingdom or theirs. I’m curious to see how many I can spot for myself._

_I’m glad to hear that Prince Castiel is a good man, even if his sword fighting leaves much to be desired. I have no doubts that you’ll be able to train him out of his bad habits in time._

_You never said what you plan to do following the ceremony. Will you come home? Have you found a lass or lad worth staying for?_

_Sam_

_P.S. I’ll cut my hair when you admit your love of romance novels to our father. He’s the only one who’s yet to find you out._


	4. Chapter 4

Nearly a week ago, Castiel had paced back and forth in front of the ever-dimming fire, reviewing his happenings ever since the tower in an effort to pinpoint exactly when his desires had veered from their expected trajectory. Hours later, well after he should have been asleep, he had tugged at his hair in frustration as he knelt on the carpet, forced to face the disappointing conclusion: there _was_ no such point.

Hannah was no longer a stranger; the idea that he simply didn’t know her well enough yet was absurd. Neither could the case be made that he was too absorbed with other business to let himself become enamoured. Not a day had gone by since their return that he did not seek her company at least once. Even—or especially—when his day was filled with long, tedious meetings arguing over this or that policy, Hannah was there to suggest an evening stroll after dinner or a night tucked away in the library.

Also dismissed as unfounded was the notion that he was not falling in love with Hannah because they were simply incompatible. Castiel was very sure that had he met Hannah organically, free of any divine involvement, the close bond they shared would have developed on its own. Hannah was complimentary to him in personality—gregarious where he could stand to be more so, forthright in a way that was empathetic but decisive where he vacillated between reticence and awkward bluntness—and supplemental to him in interests. What was more, when around one another Castiel had noticed evidence of traits often reported by those who claimed to have found their soulmate: a deep sense of wholeness, a soothing aura that kept him calmer than he might have otherwise been in times of stress, implicit feelings of trust. It seemed inconceivable that the creators had made any sort of mistake in matching them.

And yet, loath as he was to admit it for it felt like betrayal, he desired Dean. 

It was Dean’s grin at him in the mornings, given from his usual post near the door while Castiel and Hannah ate breakfast, that made his stomach swoop. It was the sight of Dean heading for the guard’s quarters, shirtless and out of breath after a good sparring match, that set a flush high on Castiel’s cheeks. It was the tinkling laughter of whichever maiden Dean has turned his flirtatious attention towards that sent a pang of jealousy through him, leaving him bitter and quiet for the rest of the day.

The whole thing was ridiculous because, among other things, Castiel knew comparatively little about Dean. His physical attraction could easily be blamed on Dean’s naturally good looks—he’d once overheard the stable boy exclaim over a pint of ale that Dean had “unfairly symmetrical features”, and Castiel found the description both hilarious and quite apt. But the rest had managed to materialize from nearly nothing.

Three days ago, Castiel had considered that he might need to forcefully redirect his attraction away from Dean and onto Hannah. Certainly, the kind of desire he’d felt for Hannah’s guard _must_ be there for Hannah too; perhaps the right push would set things back on course. He would find Hannah when they were sure to be alone and declare his romantic desire for her; from there, the spark would grow naturally from their existing bond. Simple.

Yet for the past three nights there had been no action on his part, only increasingly feeble excuses. A cantankerous nobleman had kept them well past the end of their meeting with his trivial gripes; his head ached. Hannah seemed so engrossed in her book; it would be selfish to pull her away from it. He was too tired; it could wait one more day.

No more. The wedding was fast approaching and Castiel grew more anxious with every mention of it. He would do this now.

Castiel took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles against the door to Hannah’s bedchamber. His pulse hammered loudly in the silence of the corridor for a moment before her gentle voice broke through the cacophony to usher him inside.

Hannah sat in front of the fire, curled comfortably on a plush chaise longue, her usual daywear replaced by a simple, lightweight sleeping frock. It was the least dressed Castiel had ever seen her and for a moment he worried that she might think his presence improper, but Hannah’s relaxed posture and lack of attempt to further conceal herself suggested otherwise.

“Castiel, what brings you here at this hour?”

“I...wanted to see you,” he hedged, realizing far too late that in his hurry to move his plan forward he had neglected to prepare anything to say.

The cheerfully surprised expression Hannah had worn smoothed into something warm and fond. “Join me,” she said, indicating the space beside her on the chaise longue. “Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve come to find chamomile especially soothing before sleep.”

Castiel approached, willing himself to ignore the anxious tremble in his limbs. “No thank you,” he declined, taking a seat closer to Hannah than he normally would have. If she noticed the lessened distance between them, she made no comment.

“Suit yourself,” she said, shrugging, and returned the empty teacup she had begun to pick up to its original place on the end table beside the chair. “With all the wedding planning, I look forward to this time of night.”

“Has my mother become wearisome?” Castiel asked, “She means well, but not everyone can match her exuberance—”

Hannah shook her head, shifting her legs off the chair to rest on the floor and sitting up properly from where she had been leaning against the armrest. 

“No, not at all!” she assured him in a rush, “The Queen has been extremely generous in helping me. Only…” She bit her lip, looking faintly guilty. “Well, it seems there is always another decision to be made. Just when I think I’ve been shown every color of napkin under the sun, someone turns up with a new one for me to consider.” She gave a small laugh and shook her head. “I shouldn’t complain; everyone has been perfectly kind and accommodating. I suppose I’m just a little worn out.”

Castiel reached to cover her hands where they fidgeted in her lap. “I apologize; I should make myself more available to help, even if only to decide on napkin colors.”

Hannah chuckled, turning her hands up into his and squeezing gratefully. It occured to Castiel, as he studied her, that perhaps part of the reason his attraction had mistakenly fallen to Dean was that, obvious differences aside, Dean and Hannah were alike in their remarkable aesthetic appeal. 

Like her guard, Hannah was easy to get lost in. Her clear blue eyes, prismatic and captivating in a way that reminded him of the oasis, were especially vivid in contrast to the long dark brown hair that framed her face and tumbled in soft waves past her shoulders. Her red lips and full cheeks served her expressive nature well and were perfect for warm, sincere smiles that put people at ease until they were smiling too. 

Although her thin nightclothes obscured his vision, the slope of her chest as it rose and fell with her breathing did not escape him. It was easy to imagine someone like him wanting to wrap her in their arms and smooth their fingers over her hair and down her back, gripping indulgently at her soft curves.

Someone _like_ him. Castiel had not been picturing himself wrapping her in his arms, but he was determined to fix that.

“You’re very beautiful, Hannah,” he told her, and although it was said with conviction, he hoped that it would be understood as a flirtation instead of a compliment to a dear friend.

A pretty blush reddened the apples of her cheeks. “Thank you, Castiel.”

Before he could second-guess himself or lose his nerve or worry about all the ridiculous, unlikely ways a kiss could go wrong, he placed a finger gently under her chin and coaxed her to look at him. Then, slowly, he closed the distance between them until he found the soft swell of her bottom lip with his own, letting his eyes fall shut.

Hannah went still for a moment—surprised by his unusual affection, perhaps—but then she was kissing him back tentatively, softly. Castiel withdrew slightly before pressing against her in a second kiss, surer this time. He let his head tilt to one side for a better angle and smoothed a hand over Hannah’s slim shoulder. She was warm under the frock and it probably should have been exciting, but awkwardness clung to him insistently, shifting his focus to insecurities brought on by inexperience.

He felt Hannah tremble against him. Determination renewed, he parted his lips ever so slightly to slide the tip of his tongue against her sealed mouth. Hannah placed one of her hands against the middle of his chest and he took it as encouragement, sliding his own hand down from her shoulder towards the swell of her breast.

Suddenly, the hand at his chest pushed him back with surprising strength. He blinked down at where it held him away, and when he looked up he was very startled to find Hannah looking distraught.

“Hannah?”

“Castiel, I’m...I’m terrified.” Her voice was unusually shrill with panic.

“Of me?” Castiel asked, alarmed, removing his hands from her and raising them in a placating gesture. But Hannah shook her head rapidly, her dark hair swinging. 

“Not of you, of—” She gulped, looking near tears. Her hand came away from his chest and she clutched it to herself, eyes wild. “Of _this_ . Of _us._ I haven’t—I tried to—I hoped it would happen on its own, that with time—but—”

“Hannah, please,” Castiel implored anxiously, reaching slowly to pry her hands away from where she wrung them together, “Please, let me help. What is it?”

“I don’t love you!” Hannah exclaimed. Her eyes were wide and guilty, as though the confession had burst from her without permission. A tear found its way down her cheek and she gripped tightly at Castiel’s fingers. “Castiel, I don’t love you, not the way I’m meant to. You are so precious to me and so good; you deserve to be loved, _truly_ loved, the way our favorite stories talk about—I feel sick with myself for not being capable of giving you that—” The words spilled from her as quickly and uncontrollably as the tears pouring down her face until she had dissolved into wracking sobs, unable to utter a single word more.

Castiel pulled her into his arms, shushing her softly even as his heart broke for her despair. He rubbed a hand up and down her back as his mother had done for him when he was a child, letting her cry into his tunic as he swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat, torn between anguish and the giddy relief that bubbled in his chest.

“Hannah, please don’t blame yourself,” he said when he thought himself capable of speech and when Hannah’s sobs had lessened slightly, “In truth, I’m…” The bubble in his chest inflated suddenly and a hysterical half-laugh escaped him. “... _so_ very glad you shared that with me. I’ve been feeling so guilty—” His voice cracked and to his surprise, he found his own eyes stinging; a result of the incredible pressure he had placed upon himself, unaware of its immensity. He turned his face into Hannah’s warm hair as a tear fell, clinging to her tightly. “—wondering whether all the stories are just horribly exaggerated, wondering if I had done something wrong, because I…”

The words felt stuck in his throat even now, but he forced them out at last. “I don’t love you either, Hannah. Not the way I’m meant to.”

Admitting it felt like exhaling; like breaking the surface after being held underwater too long. Another tear tracked down his cheek and he swallowed around a relieved sob.

Castiel held Hannah for several long moments, breathing slowly and purposely until he felt moderately more composed and giving Hannah a chance to do the same.

Eventually, she stirred in his arms. Slowly, timidly, Hannah lifted her face from where it was buried in Castiel’s shoulder to stare at him, eyes red-rimmed but wide and shining with cautious hope.

“Truly?” she breathed, searching him for some hint of deception.

“Truly,” Castiel confirmed, smiling sadly.

They stared at each other in the dying light of fire, reeling from the past few minutes. A slow, shaky smile parted Hannah’s lips and she giggled, hiccuping a little after so much crying. Once she started she seemed unable to stop, her giggles morphing into full, hearty peals of laughter. Her mirth was contagious and soon Castiel was laughing too, the ridiculousness of their situation fueling the hilarity. Before long their laughter was little more than wheezing as they clutched at their sides and at each other, trying in vain to catch their breath.

“This confirms it,” Hannah managed weakly when she could speak again, “Surely we aren’t meant to be so amused by confessing our mutual _lack_ of love for each other.”

Castiel rubbed roughly at the renewed wetness on his cheeks and breathed deeply, interrupted here and there as stray chuckles found their way out of him.

“Do you suppose the creators made a mistake?” he asked jovially, reaching into his breast pocket to fish out an embroidered handkerchief, which he offered to Hannah. He was likely meant to feel much more sullen at that thought.

She took it gratefully, giving one last watery giggle as she dabbed carefully at her wet eyes. “I’ve no idea,” she said, “but Castiel, whether there has been a mistake or not I...don’t think we can marry.”

It seemed strange to be regretful after having just expressed their lack of romantic interest in one another, but he was. From the moment he had woken her, Castiel had felt connected to Hannah in a way he was not familiar with. The bond between them was strong and honest, and he lamented that their feelings had mutually gone astray. In a fairytale world, he and Hannah would have fallen in love quickly and wed eagerly, to the elation of each other, their kingdoms, and their creators. Alas, the books in his library never offered any guarantee of verisimilitude alongside the fantastical tales.

“I agree,” Castiel sighed tiredly. The fire was no more than smoldering embers and the emotional whiplash of the past few hours had drained him. “We will have to figure out a path forward—” Beside him, Hannah slumped forward a little, looking as bone-tired as Castiel felt. “—but it can wait until tomorrow.”

Hannah smiled wearily at him before drawing him into a gentle hug.

“Thank you, Castiel,” she whispered into his shoulder.

—

The sun was already well on its way to the center of the sky by the time Castiel awoke the next morning, a dull ache blooming persistently behind his eyes—the result of the previous night’s turmoil, he was certain.

A servant had left a breakfast tray outside his chamber and he picked at it for a few minutes before admitting that it would not sate the particular craving that nagged at him.

It had been many years since Castiel had made himself Misery Tea; in his youth, the head cook, a quick-witted and talented woman by the name of Missouri, had made the drink for him a number of times. She had always seemed to know exactly which days Castiel had been in need of extra comfort, and snuck him away to the kitchens between meals where she would dry his tears and listen to what ailed him as she flitted about collecting ingredients. Her own personal blend of leaves and spices joined honey and just a dash of cream in a small pot over the fire and when it was ready, she would sit with Castiel while they sipped mugs of the warm beverage and help him put words to his feelings.

Missouri’s tea, for when he was miserable. Misery Tea. 

“It’s important to talk about your feelings, Castiel,” she had always reminded him when embarrassment or rage held his mouth shut, “The first step to understanding someone else’s point of view is to understand our own.”

Missouri had passed away a few years after his father.

Though she hadn’t been a teacher in trade, Castiel took her lessons as seriously as those of his other tutors. Missouri had been a wonderful mentor, whether that had been her intention or not. At her funeral, he’d sworn to her that he would try his best to be honest—even if only to himself—about his feelings.

A scullery maid had slipped the recipe for honey tea onto Castiel’s breakfast tray a few days after the service and, although he now knew it by heart, the little piece of paper bearing Missouri’s wide, looping handwriting sat nestled safely in his bedside drawer with various other keepsakes.

Castiel moved swiftly towards the kitchens, keeping an eye out for the current head chef who was wont to tut at him about the improprieties of a prince preparing food or drink for himself.

The kitchens were, thankfully, quiet. Castiel made his way over to the pantry, mentally running down the list of things he needed. Enough time had gone by since his last need for Misery Tea that he couldn’t be sure whether there were any dried chrysanthemum leaves left, but if not he’d make do with—

Castiel nearly jumped out of his own skin at the unexpected sight of Dean rummaging through the spice shelves. Dean must have been equally caught off guard because he swore loudly and fumbled the jar of cinnamon he’d had nestled in the crook of his arm.

“By the creators, Cas,” he complained, stooping to pick up the cinnamon which had, miraculously, not shattered. “You nearly scared me into an early grave!”

“I could say the same of you,” Castiel retorted, scowling even as his racing heart resumed an appropriate pace. “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing, I just…” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep, slow breath. His frown slowly dissolved into a more neutral, if a little weary, expression. “Hannah seemed melancholy this morning. I had hoped to make a sweet we enjoyed together as children.”

“Do you not trust our chef?”

“I’m sure she’d do a fine job,” He scuffed his boot along the stone floor, as though embarrassed. “But making it myself seems more sincere.”

“I see,” Castiel said, glancing at the spice shelf where Dean had collected an assortment of jars. “Well, you are more than welcome to anything in our kitchen, of course.”

Dean nodded, the tips of his ears still slightly reddened. “Thank you,” he said quietly, shifting his chosen spices into his arms and waiting for Castiel to step aside so that he could pass.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Dean asked belatedly over his shoulder as he deposited his jars onto the counter. Had Castiel been paying attention, he might have noticed the other ingredients and tools necessary for making dough already out and waiting.

Perhaps it was best for him to take his leave, but in a show of stubbornness he remained, taking his turn in the pantry and shifting through the tins of dried flowers while Dean set to work on his own project. 

“I came to make something for myself, too.”

Dean snorted. “Do _you_ not trust your chef?” His tone was teasing.

“She is a talented cook,” Castiel said, setting his ingredients beside the fire and reaching for a small pot, “but she dislikes seeing me in the kitchen. Perhaps she’s worried the nobles will never take me seriously if my doublet is dotted with flour.”

He turned to fill the pot with water from the pump. Dean wasn’t looking at him, but the corner of his mouth was ticked up in an amused grin. Castiel watched as he worked deftly, familiarly with his newly made dough, as though he’d done so many times. “I didn’t know you could bake.”

Dean glanced at him again, assessing this time. “Of course I can,” he said, “Nothing fancy, mind you. Enough to get by on my own in the tower.” 

“You lived there?”

Dean gave him a wry look. “Do you suppose faeries kept Hannah from starving to death in her sleep?”

If Castiel lit the fire beneath his pot of water quickly enough, perhaps he could convince himself that the heat in his face was a byproduct of his work instead of embarrassment at his own ignorance. “I had not considered how she was cared for,” he mumbled eventually.

“I’m only teasing,” Dean offered with a small, apologetic laugh, “Most people don’t think to wonder. I suspect the fairytale of the beautiful maiden asleep in the woods would lose most of its charm if the more grotesque aspects of keeping someone alive for so long were detailed.”

It only took a few half-formed thoughts in that general direction before Castiel grimaced, abruptly concluding that Dean was quite right. No further justification necessary. Much more pleasant indeed to focus on making his Misery Tea.

There was silence again, save for the gritty sounds of dough on the wooden counter and the soft bubbling of Castiel’s pot. When it was ready, Castiel poured his concoction carefully into a mug and sipped it slowly, letting the aromatic steam soothe him in between pulls. It really did work wonders for his mood; perhaps he should follow Dean’s example and bring some to Hannah, too.

The gentle lull of kneading dough was gradually replaced with the crisp, wet sounds of produce being cut. Curious, Castiel wandered closer to watch as Dean worked his paring knife rhythmically through a ripe, red apple.

“What are you making?”

“It’s a fruit pastry,” Dean explained without looking up, pausing briefly to indicate a bowl already full of sliced fruit—apple, and perhaps pear too—sitting close by. “It may have a proper name, but Hannah and I never knew it. My mother let us experiment in the kitchen at home one day, and this is what we concocted.”

When he was done with the red apple he dragged the bowl closer, adding generous amounts of cinnamon, nutmeg, and brown sugar before reaching in and turning the contents over themselves until the spices were evenly distributed.

“Perhaps I should learn to make it,” Castiel said as Dean tore off a bit of dough and flattened it into a vaguely triangular shape on the counter, “So that I can make it for her someday.”

Dean considered him for a moment, his hand paused in its return to the fruit bowl, then grinned. “If His Majesty desires a floury doublet, who am I to stop him? Here, help me place the fruit.” He shifted to one side, indicating the dough on the counter.

Castiel set his mug down and eagerly began rolling his sleeves out of the way as Dean shaped another bit of dough for himself.

“Just place a few pieces in the center—” Dean artfully arranged a few slices of fruit. “—and then fold up the sides, like so.” Each point of the triangle was pulled gently into place atop the fruit.

Side by side, they pressed spiced fruit slices into bits of dough until the bowl was empty. Dean slipped their tray of pastries into the oven to bake, declaring that it would only take around twenty minutes.

“So,” Dean said conversationally, rubbing his hands together under water from the pump to rid them of their stickiness, “do you know what ails Princess Hannah this morning?”

The question was perfectly innocent; Dean knew nothing of the tumultuous evening Castiel and Hannah had spent together, as far as he was aware. Even so, he felt caught off guard.

“She...is nervous about the upcoming wedding, I believe,” he said at length. A half-truth. It seemed unwise to relay the discoveries they had made the previous night as he could not guess how Dean might react to the news.

His slow response left him open to suspicion, if the critical way Dean studied him was any indication.

“And you are not?”

“I am,” Castiel replied honestly. He had intended to elaborate, but everything he could think of to say would either give away too much of the truth or be an outright lie.

“Hmm,” Dean hummed, running his thumb thoughtfully across his lower lip, “It’s a big change, I suppose.”

“Have you never been inclined to marry?”

In all his musings of Dean, Castiel had failed to consider the perfectly real possibility that Dean was spoken for by someone from his home kingdom. He was flirtatious by nature, but he’d never shown any real intent in pursuing anyone since his arrival, and Castiel had never wondered why that might be. A small, jealous knot formed in the pit of his stomach at the thought.

Dean shrugged easily. “Once,” he said, turning to fetch a cloth and pulling their pastries out of the fire, “It was not meant to be.”

The knot in his stomach eased ever so slightly.

“What happened?”

Dean set the hot tray on the counter, leaning over it slightly to examine their work. “We enjoyed being together,” he said, “but the more our friends and families pressured us for a proper wedding announcement, the more we came to realize that we had fallen out of love.”

Castiel was unsure how to respond. Dean spoke matter-of-factly, as though he were mentioning his plans for the day; either he was extremely adept at hiding his lingering pain from the experience, or there was none.

“I’m sorry,” he offered anyway.

Dean looked amused. “There is no need to be,” he said, “Truthfully, friendship better suits us. What we are to each other now is no less meaningful than when we were in love. Now, here—” He gestured to the cooling tray. “We get the first pick.”

Golden brown and sweet-smelling, the pastries looked perfect. Even the ones folded by his own clumsy hands had ended up resembling proper baked goods instead of amorphous blobs as he’d feared.

“They look terrific,” he said, smiling proudly at their spoils.

“I admit, this was partly a selfish endeavor,” Dean said, grinning as he pulled two small plates from a nearby shelf. He plucked the topmost pastry off the pile and offered it to Castiel before adding one to his own plate. “Try it.”

Castiel raised the still-hot sweet and bit into it hesitantly, worried about burning himself. The dough flaked pleasantly and the flavors of the apple and pear, enhanced as they were by the spices Dean had added, exploded across his tongue. It made him think of cozy autumn evenings by the fireplace with his favorite books and warm cider.

He savored the taste, almost mourning the eventual need to swallow. His eyes had closed of their own accord and he opened them to see Dean’s pleased expression.

“Good, isn’t it?”

“Magnificent,” Castiel said, voice slightly muffled around a second bite, “These make me very happy.”

Dean laughed. “Careful, unless you’d like your tongue burned.” He looked up from his own pastry and stared at Castiel for a moment before setting his treat back down with an amused snort. “Your royal highness has a royal speck—” Without finishing the sentence he reached up to swipe a thumb against the corner or Castiel’s mouth, presumably detaching whatever bit of pastry had clung there.

Dean did not pull his hand back immediately. Castiel swallowed his mouthful and stood still, perplexed.

In the context of romantic intimacy, someone wiping a stray crumb from his mouth was almost laughably tame and barely worth acknowledging. Still, despite Dean’s near-constant proximity as Hannah’s guard, he and Castiel shared relatively little physical contact. Castiel looked forward to the rare times they did briefly interact no matter how perfunctory the touch, so infatuated had he accidentally become with Dean. The way his cheeks warmed, then, came as no surprise.

What could not be explained by Castiel’s affections, however, was the flush across _Dean’s_ face.

Almost absently, Dean slid his thumb gently to the middle of Castiel’s lower lip. Castiel was certain his eyes were playing tricks on him; Dean watched his finger’s path, an unfamiliar intensity in his green eyes which, combined with his pink cheeks, made him look—

Well, it looked like he might be following the same sort of imaginary path that Castiel often found himself wandering down at wholly inappropriate times after admiring Dean for too long.

The notion seemed awfully farfetched; wishful thinking on his part. Nevertheless, Castiel felt those damnable, elusive butterflies take flight in his stomach.

The wisest course of action, he knew, would be to step back so that Dean’s hand fell away. He would turn back to the counter, prepare a plate of pastries for Hannah, and make some parting joke to dispel any lingering embarrassment, if he could think of one. Or perhaps it would be better to simply pretend nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

But a part of him, a much more selfish, selfishly needed to know whether he had guessed correctly, whether Dean was, intentionally or not, expressing the kind interest in him that Castiel imagined. Whether something about himself had prompted Dean to follow a less-than-wholesome thought.

Feeling bold, Castiel tilted his head ever so slightly and, watching Dean closely for a reaction, pressed his lips against the pad of Dean’s thumb in a soft, unmistakable kiss.

The red in Dean’s face darkened and he inhaled sharply, audibly, before finally meeting Castiel’s gaze. For a second he looked stunned, but then he pulled his hand away abruptly, hurrying to put space between them.

“Apologies, I—you had—” He turned and all but threw a few pastries onto his own plate. “I should bring these to Hannah before they go cold,” he finally managed, not waiting for a reply before making a hasty exit, avoiding any further eye contact.

Castiel did not follow him. He had clearly read the situation wrong somewhere, and now that the spell was broken he felt foolish and mortified. With any luck, Dean would be willing to forget his inappropriate behavior with minimal awkwardness.

Perhaps he needed another cup of Misery Tea.

With a sigh, Castiel gathered the various kitchen wares he and Dean had dirtied and brought them to the wash basin in the corner. After a quick pause to sweep stray flour from the countertop he filled the sink and began scrubbing as quickly as he dared. The head chef disapproved of his very presence in the kitchens; Castiel feared for the health of her heart should she catch him washing dishes. Still, he didn’t want some poor kitchen worker to be scolded if he left a mess.

Try as he might to keep his mind otherwise occupied, Dean remained at the forefront of his thoughts. It was comforting, in some small measure, to have heard that he and Hannah were not alone in lacking romantic feelings for each other in spite of the expectation that they would soon marry. Castiel wished he could travel to the past, visit that time in Dean’s life and ask him if his friends and family had understood when the relationship did not evolve as expected. 

The circumstances were quite different, of course. Dean was not royalty, for one thing, and there would have been no divine intervention suggesting a perfect match, for another. Castiel had not lamented having the kind of assurance his vial of grace provided him since before leaving to find Hannah, but he did so now. How much simpler it must have been for Dean and his partner to end the relationship. How lucky, too, that it had ended amicably. Dean had said outright that, despite not being romantic in nature, the love they had for each other now was just as meaningful—

The bowl he’d been rinsing slipped from his fingers, clattering noisily against the basin. Castiel blinked at it.

All his life, he had relied on the old stories, passed down through generations, that spoke of the unity between then eastern and western kingdoms and how it had been sustained. Castiel accepted them as unerring recounts of the divinely chosen path his ancestors had journeyed down in an unbroken cycle of seeking a sleeping lover, waking them, and releasing their combined grace back unto the creators. It must be true because it _had_ been true, up until this point.

And yet, even though the legends told a tale of deep, romantic love born of a predetermined connection, each of them ended with a unity ceremony _and_ a wedding. Was it not reasonable, then, to consider that the success of the unity ceremony was not dependent on a marriage taking place? Could they join their grace without sacrificing both their chances at falling in love someday?

Or was he willfully projecting his own desire for this particular freedom onto any solution that might allow it?

Unfortunately, there was a fair amount of risk in seeking out the one person who might be able to offer guidance, especially if it turned out that he and Hannah would need to marry regardless. But the thought of Hannah, sobbing against him and asking for forgiveness for her lack of affection, was still fresh in his mind; it was worth the risk, for both their sakes.

Dry dishes quickly found their homes on the shelves and then Castiel was nearly sprinting away from the kitchens in search of Hannah. He knocked frantically on the door to her bedchamber, already plotting the next few places he might check should she not answer.

Blessedly, there were soft footsteps from inside the room and the door swung open with a dull creak.

“Castiel? What—”

“The stories might be wrong,” he rushed, urging Hannah out of her room with a gentle tug on her wrist. Although clearly a little alarmed and confused by his outburst, she followed him easily. 

“What do you mean?”

Eager impatience made it tempting to quicken his steps as he led Hannah towards the castle’s private temple, but he forced himself to slow down and keep a reasonable pace.

“In all the stories we know, the unity ceremony is always preceded by a wedding,” he explained, “I’ve been wondering whether some aspect of marriage impacts the unity ceremony; if not, it stands to reason that one can be done without the other, meaning—”

“— there would be no need for us to marry,” Hannah finished, eyes wide.

“Precisely,” Castiel nodded, “but it seems prudent to confer with the High Priestess first; she is more knowledgeable than either of us in this regard.”

The journey from the public temple in the center of town to the castle grounds took the better part of an hour, on average. Despite being well aware of this, Castiel had begun fidgeting impatiently almost as soon as the courier he’d sent to request an audience with the High Priestess had left the room. A quarter of an hour later, an exasperated Hannah had fetched a few of their favorite books from the library and, brooking not a single thread’s worth of room for argument, pressed a book into his hand and Castiel onto a low cushion in front of one of the ornate stained glass windows. She had situated herself on the cushion beside him with a book of her own and there they had stayed for most of their wait.

But enough time had passed that the High Priestess was due to arrive any moment and Castiel had resumed his frenetic pacing, book forgotten on his abandoned cushion. Hannah still sat quietly, but even her impressive poise was not enough to completely mask her nerves. Though her book was open, she was only pretending to read; she’d not turned the page in several minutes.

The telltale echoing click of heeled shoes on stone reached them at last. Hannah rose as the courier reentered the private temple followed closely by High Priestess Rowena. Her glittering skirts swished heavily against the floor as she dropped into a low, sweeping curtsey.

“I’m honored to be called upon, your majesties,” she greeted, smiling amicably, “What can I help—my, my, you’re both in quite a state, aren’t you?” Her eyebrows rose high as she stepped forward to survey them more closely, the expression dramaticized by the colors artfully applied around her eyes.

Castiel and Hannah glanced sheepishly at one another. Rowena was quite right; Hannah was puffy under the eyes and her hair did not sit as smoothly as it usually did. Castiel’s shirtsleeves were still rolled up to his elbows and the front of his tunic was dotted with flour (oh, how the head chef would fuss) from his work in the kitchens.

“I apologize if we’ve caused alarm,” Castiel began, tugging his sleeves back down as Hannah brushed her fingers through her hair.

“I’m sure there’s an interesting story to go with it,” Rowena reassured him, “so, off you go. Tell me the story.”

And for the next half an hour, they did so. Rowena listened patiently while Hannah and Castiel recounted the details of their conversation the previous night. If she was angry or disappointed in either of them, she did not show it. Her expression remained calm through their explanations, although it twisted briefly in sympathy when Hannah tearfully admitted to the increasing guilt she had felt as the wedding drew nearer.

“Given the conclusions we’ve come to,” Castiel finished, “we’d like your expertise on whether or not the Unity Ceremony can safely be decoupled from marriage.”

Rowena considered his proposal for a moment before reaching out to tap a nail gently on the vial of grace hanging around Castiel’s neck.

“Do you know what this is?” she asked.

“My...grace?” Castiel offered slowly, puzzled.

Rowena smiled knowingly. “But do you know what it _is_ ,” she emphasized, “Do you know what it’s composed of? Do you know its meaning or the reason it is trapped inside those little vials of yours?”

“I suppose not,” he admitted as Hannah shook her head.

“Of course not,” Rowena affirmed gently, moving to stand in front of the window. The early afternoon light pouring through the colorful glass bounced off of Rowena’s decorated gown, sending pinpricks dancing around the room. “The creators are beings removed from the very concept of existence as we know it. It would be impossible for any other being to truly know and understand the intentions of something so omniscient, so unfathomable, so _vast_. The best we can do—” She stooped to pluck Hannah’s book off the cushion. “—is to write stories.”

Rowena walked back to where Castiel and Hannah stood and offered the book to them. Hannah took it with careful hands.

“I have seen many stories in my time, Castiel,” Rowena said, giving him a piercing look. “Yours are not the first to presume the intentions of our creators and they will certainly not be the last. Even the most complex tales cannot capture the nuance and malleability of the real world. You and Hannah do not need to marry simply because your stories suggest it; we will proceed with the Unity Ceremony alone.”

After one last reassuring squeeze to both his and Hannah’s arms, Rowena swept into another graceful curtsey and made her way back towards the entrance to the temple. With one hand on the door she paused, turning to look at them over her shoulder.

“Besides,” she said lightly, “what are your crowns good for, if not suggesting a change in tradition now and again?”

—

The cheerful weightlessness that had swept over him on the heels of Rowena’s visit carried him through the rest of the evening. Hannah too seemed more at ease than she had been in days. Queen Naomi commented on their improved spirits over dinner, but Castiel demurred; truthfully, Castiel could not guess either way about his mother’s reaction. She was fair and reasonable in her judgements and he hoped their happiness and Rowena’s blessing would be enough to assuage any concerns she might have, but his mother was not one to be overcome by her emotions and he was unsure how tightly she held onto the notion of traditions. But that headache, should it come, could wait until the next morning.

Castiel might have hoped that without as much guilt and anxiety crowding his thoughts, it would prove more challenging to catch him unawares. Alas, as he was yanked bodily into a side corridor on his way to bed, he was forced to accept that he was no more aware of his surroundings than he had been when Dean had nearly beheaded him in the tower.

Thankfully, there was no sword to his throat this time. Dean stood at arm’s length, holding him in place against the cold stone wall with a firm hand against his chest.

“Good evening, Dean,” Castiel greeted, hoping his voice did not reflect that spike of sheer terror that had gripped him a moment ago, “Did less violent means of trying to contact me fail? You might have tried slipping me a note on a napkin at dinner.”

Dean smirked triumphantly. “If you paid more attention, you would have been able to deflect me.” He released Castiel and dropped his gaze to the floor, suddenly looking rather meek. “I had to wait until Hannah retired,” he explained, voice quieter, “I don’t desire an audience.”

There was silence as Castiel watched, confused, as Dean shifted his weight onto one foot and then the other. Eventually, Dean straightened himself up, clasping his hands behind his back and determinedly holding Castiel’s stare.

“This morning, in the kitchens—I wanted to apologize.”

In the wake of the epiphany he’d had while doing dishes and his subsequent mad dash to contact Rowena, Castiel had managed to let the morning’s awkwardness fall to the back of his mind. Now it returned to the forefront, lighting his cheeks on fire along the way.

And yet, on the long list of things Castiel might have expected to hear from Dean on the matter, an apology was nowhere to be found. Puzzlement filtered in through his embarrassment, but he was not granted any time to ask for clarification.

“I’m aware that people perceive me to be rather...flirtatious in nature,” Dean began, “but most of the time, I don’t mean anything by it; it’s all in good fun, you know?” He shrugged one shoulder up and down, smiling weakly. “But every once in awhile I get carried away, and end up in hot water.”

“And that’s what happened earlier?” If he were perfectly honest with himself, Castiel was unsure he wanted an answer to that. Both options seemed equally demoralizing, somehow.

“It is,” Dean admitted quietly. Castiel had to commend him for how hard he was clearly fighting not to avert his eyes. “I let my own desires get the better of me and it led me to act inappropriately. I understand why you reacted the way you did and I don’t hold it against you.”

Although he had just been forgiven for his own brazenly improper behavior, Castiel knew it would weigh on him unless he apologized properly.

“I—” he tried, but it felt like he was talking through a mouthful of honey. Castiel cleared his throat and swallowed thickly before trying again. “I apologize for making you uncomfortable; I did not mean to misread things so severely.”

“You didn’t.” Dean’s voice came out barely louder than a whisper. Then, more clearly, “I wanted to assure you that it won’t happen again. Hannah is very dear to me; I would never purposefully try to...to tempt you from her.”

The longer they talked, the more bewildered Castiel became. He scrutinized Dean’s face for helpful clues in the scant light coming through the window a few steps away, but neither the bright red flush he wore nor the pleading, guilty look in his eyes were forthcoming.

There was no sense in the idea that he could be tempted away from Hannah unless he was in love with— 

_Oh._

Dean was, like everyone else, under the assumption that he and Hannah were terribly in love; Hannah had not relayed any of their conversation to him.

“You haven’t tempted me from Hannah—” Castiel started, but Dean scowled and held up a hand to cut him off.

“I accept responsibility for the way I encouraged you,” he interrupted crossly, “but I thought you noble enough not to be dishonest about your own actions.”

“Dean—”

“ _No_ , Castiel.” Dean exhaled sharply, irritated. “You and your kingdom have shown me great hospitality, and I am grateful for it. But make no mistake; my loyalty lies unquestionably with Hannah. If you hurt her—”

“ _Dean._ ” Castiel put a firm hand on his shoulder, looking him directly in the eye and willing him to listen. “I understand; in fact, I commend you for it. But there is something you ought to know: I care for Hannah very much. Her happiness and well-being are important to me, and I like to believe she regards me similarly. That said, last night we came to an understanding about our mutual _lack_ of romantic feelings for one another.”

Dean opened his mouth angrily, clearly expecting to need to argue further, but closed it abruptly a moment later.

“Your _lack_ of romantic feelings?” he parroted incredulously., “But what about the wedding? And the Unity Ceremony?”

“We’ve spoken to the High Priestess,” he summarized, “and decided that marriage would be in neither of our best interests. The Unity Ceremony will occur as planned, but Hannah will be free to marry someone of her choosing, at her convenience. As will I.”

Dean considered this as he scrutinized Castiel, presumably for some hint of deception.

“Well,” he hedged finally, still looking a little unsure, “that’s good news then, I suppose. You...are really not in love with each other?”

Castiel barely contained his snort of amusement; it struck him as ridiculous too, that he had not fallen in love with Hannah. He shook his head. 

“What made you realize...?” Dean asked.

Dean already knew he’d had at least _some_ effect on Castiel, even if he had misinterpreted the circumstances. Was there harm in being straightforward with him now? In his apology he’d stated that his actions had been born of desire he’d temporarily lost control over, but that could mean many things; Castiel was leary of misreading his intentions a second time.

“I cannot speak for Hannah,” Castiel said eventually, “my interest lies...elsewhere.”

Dean squinted at him for a moment. Slowly, his lips twitched upward in the beginnings of his charming smile.

“Is that so, your highness?” Dean had clearly gotten his meaning. “Then, I didn’t tempt you away from Hannah; I simply _tempted_ you.”

Castiel flushed brightly, but nodded, willing himself to hold Dean’s piercing gaze.

“In that case, let’s see if I can’t tempt you a bit more.”


	5. Chapter 5

To everyone’s delight, the day of the ceremony dawned clear and mild. Castiel and Hannah were afforded only a scant half hour of privacy to eat their breakfast before they were being whisked away to begin preparations for the upcoming festivities.

At lunch, High Priestess Rowena ran through the proceedings with them, showing them where they were to move and when, and giving them a brief overview of what would be said. 

When he looked at her, Hannah looked just as dazed and overwhelmed as he felt. He squeezed her hand under the table. 

The remaining few hours slid by in too much of a rush for him to pay any real kind of attention, and before he knew it, he and Hannah were standing in the archway of the presentation balcony. Hannah looked radiant in the vivid purple gown the Queen had commissioned for her. 

Though he couldn’t see the crowd outside, he heard their excited murmurs as they gathered below the balcony, waiting for the ceremony to officially begin.

Rowena walked out to greet the crowd first, her ceremonial gold robes shining brightly in the dying sunlight. Castiel and Hannah kept their places, as instructed.

“Friends, families, people of the western kingdom, I welcome you.” Her voice was pretty and lyrical as it poured over the now silent crowd. “It is truly a heartwarming thing, these opportunities we get to recognize a divinely chosen pair. As legend tells, we celebrate the union of this pair by joining grace from each person. This is a sacred act, one that signifies not just the union of these two people, but also the continued unity between our vast kingdoms.”

Rowena turned to him, sweeping one arm out to indicate that Castiel should step forward.

“I present to you, Prince Castiel of the western throne—” There were raucous cheers from down below, and Castiel was warmed to see so many of his kingdom present and in high spirits. “—and his soulmate, Princess Hannah of the eastern throne.”

Hannah stepped forward on Rowena’s other side, smiling and looking just a bit pink at the chorus of cheers that went up.

When directed, they turned to face each other and took each other’s hands. The crowd fell silent once more and heads bowed respectfully as Rowena began her prayers. Finally, with a great flourish, she concluded and bowed, indicating to Castiel and Hannah that they should open the vials that hung around each of their necks.

With a dull _pop_ the corks came free, and Hannah and Castiel joined hands again as grace from each vial sought its companion. Wisps of grace trailed from the open vials like liquid smoke, gathering around their joined hands and shimmering in the setting sun. 

Castiel’s faintly blue grace danced through and around the equally eager, iridescent lilac of Hannah’s, until the two colors were indistinguishable from one another, a shifting, colorful aura that surrounded them.

The crowd below made sounds of wonder at the spectacular sight; Castiel watched, dazed, at the beautiful light before him, squeezing Hannah’s hands.

At last, the light gathered above their hands, and Castiel gasped along with Hannah and the crowd as the ball of light shot into the air, returned properly to their creators.

There were whoops and cheers from the crowd below and Castiel pulled Hannah forward into his arms, ecstatic. Hannah squeezed him tight, a few tears of joy landing on his shoulder.

“Prince, Princess,” Rowena asked softly, smiling, “Have you anything to say to your subjects?”

Castiel looked at Hannah for confirmation, and without any words she understood his request. A firm nod from her calmed his nerves and she kept her hand in his as they turned to face the crowd together.

“We know you expected a wedding today,” Castiel began, “For a long time, so did we.” He glanced fondly at Hannah. “What we’ve come to understand from one another is that true love is not limited in its capacity. There is value to be gained from _all_ forms of love, be it romantic or not. Hold your friends and family in as high regard as you would a lover. And make no mistake—” He glanced at Hannah again, giving her hand a light squeeze. “Though we are not in love, Hannah and I _do_ love each other. Together, we will lead our kingdoms down this continued path of peace.”

There was loud applause again, and Castiel beamed out at his people, feeling lighter than he had in ages.

Once the crowd had died down, Castiel and Hannah retreated back into the castle, where Hannah exhaled dramatically.

“Who knew such a lovely ceremony would be so exhausting?” she joked. “I don’t know about you, but I cannot wait for the feast to start.”

“We’re the guests of honor,” Castiel pointed out, offering her his arm, “The faster we arrive, the faster it shall begin.”

Hannah took his arm, and together they made their way outside to greet their awaiting people.

Food, drink, and dance carried everyone long into the night. Despite his exhaustion earlier in the day, Castiel found his second wind. He laughed until he was hoarse, danced with Hannah and the other courtiers until he couldn’t feel his legs, and reminded himself several times to thank the kitchen staff profusely for the bountiful feast they had arranged.

Eventually, Dean found him in the crowd, slightly tipsy and with a bright smile on his face. He slung an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and pulled him close, speaking softly into his ear.

—

Only once Hannah had been safely escorted back to her room did Castiel allow himself to press close against Dean and let his hands wander freely. One palm smoothed around from Dean’s waist to the dip of his lower back, cataloguing the roughness of his outermost layer of clothing; the other came up to trace along the cold metal of the familiar chainmail that hung halfway down his chest.

Twin low chuckles reached him distantly, one fond and the second dark and suggestive—Benny and Dean respectively—but Castiel was far too wired to keep up the pretense of propriety.

“Go,” Benny said, presumably to Dean, “I’ll guard Hannah tonight. Find yourself a bed, or at the very least a less public space than this.”

The distance to his own chamber seemed strangely insurmountable; Castiel therefore offered no resistance when Dean diverted them into the same corridor he’d pulled Castiel into weeks ago.

Had it been weeks? The longer he thought about it the more certain he became that only six days had passed since then.

There had been time for very little else amidst the rush of last minute rearrangements (really, one would think _cancelling_ a wedding would require less effort than planning one) for the Unity Ceremony. On the rare occasions that Hannah had left his side, Dean had usually gone with her, resulting in the maddening contradiction that Dean’s presence always coincided with an utter lack of freedom on Castiel’s part to take advantage of it.

Arousal had simmered just beneath the surface of his skin for six long days, fueled by the giddy happiness that came with knowing his affections were reciprocated. The handful of hot, frantic kisses they had managed to steal in dark corridors did nothing to sate him; just when he let himself get swept away, Dean would pull back and rush off to his post with an apology and a promise of next time, leaving Castiel flushed and wanting and thoroughly incapable of giving his undivided attention to whichever task was currently at hand.

Nevermind that Castiel had been attracted to Dean since well before their confessions to one another.

Dean seemed well aware that Castiel could not withstand postponing things further—or maybe he had reached a similar state of frazzled need—for he spared no effort on light, teasing touches, choosing instead to push Castiel against the wall with his own weight. One hand fumbled at the edge of Castiel’s tunic while the other cupped his jaw, pulling him in to meet Dean’s insistent, indulgent kisses.

Castiel raked his hands roughly through soft hair, curling his fingers closed to tug as he laved his tongue against Dean’s lower lip. A strangled sound left Dean’s throat as he thrust his hips forward into Castiel, his head tipping backwards. Castiel wasted no time dragging his lips along the edge of that sharp jaw he so adored before moving even further down to mouth at the spot just above Dean’s Adam's apple. Dean did not let him wander for long; the hand still on his cheek guided him back up so Dean could connect their mouths again, and Castiel found himself stuck between progressing further and being completely unwilling to stop kissing. The fingers of Dean’s other hand gripped at Castiel’s hip underneath his tunic, promising that ridding themselves of clothes would be well worth the effort, but the thought of releasing Dean to do so made him ache.

“Hey,” Dean breathed quietly against the shell of his ear, “‘M not going to be summoned away this time, I promise.”

Castiel came back to himself enough to realize that he was clutching at Dean unusually tightly; in the past few days, none of their trysts had developed beyond this point. He loosened his grip, laughing under his breath his subconscious attempt to prevent Dean from vanishing. Dean used his renewed freedom to pull his hips away and press forward again, the new angle doing wonders for both of them.

“ _Ah_ , fuck—”

The obscenity sounded inexplicably sacred in Dean’s roughened voice. Castiel rewarded it with a soft bite to his lower lip.

Hushed voices in the main corridor pushed slowly through the lustful haze overwhelming his thoughts. Dean seemed to have noticed too, but when Castiel pushed him gently away, the mischievous glint so often in his eyes made a sudden reappearance. Dean held a finger to his lips, grinning wolfishly, before rolling his hips very deliberately against Castiel. A whimper escaped him against his will, forcing Dean to cover his mouth with one hand lest they be discovered.

The voices were clearer now; if either speaker thought to look down Castiel and Dean’s corridor, the night would end rather differently than planned. Another twitch of Dean’s sinful hips, another gasp against the hand over his mouth. Dean breathed heavily against his neck, pressing rough kisses against Castiel’s skin with each roll of his hips to keep himself quiet.

At long last the voices passed their hiding spot and began to fade. Castiel pulled Dean up to face him properly.

“You’re a menace,” he growled against Dean’s infuriating smile. Dean only laughed in between kisses.

When at long last they arrived at Castiel’s quarters, they separated just long enough to divest themselves of their clothing without an ounce of finesse before tumbling gracelessly onto the large bed, incapable or unwilling to allow too much distance between them.

Castiel did eventually raise himself onto his forearms to admire Dean spread out atop his sheets. Distantly, he offered thanks to whomever had prepared his room for their foresight to light a candle before leaving. Blue-white moonlight streamed in through the window on the opposite wall, combining with the flickering orange candle like to throw Dean into stunning contrast. Breathless and aroused, Dean was spectacular to behold. 

He let green eyes look their fill, feeling strangely humbled by the open need in Dean’s expression. Dean himself had admitted to his predilection towards coquettish behavior, and while it was indeed flattering to receive such attention, the way Dean looked at him now was somehow _more_. Finding himself capable of reducing Dean to this flushed, wanting version of himself made Castiel feel powerful in a way he very much liked. 

For no other reason than because he was now allowed to do freely, Castiel caught Dean’s plush bottom lip—already quite red and swollen from so many kisses— between his teeth, soothing over it with his tongue immediately afterwards. Dean carded his fingers through Castiel’s hair and pulled him back down, sealing their lips together in a proper kiss, open-mouthed and desperate.

Dean’s skin felt so _warm_ against his own and Castiel revelled in it, holding him close as though he might vanish and leave Castiel cold, as the many imaginary counterparts that visited Castiel’s dreams often were wont to do. He felt the rumble of Dean’s chuckle against his lips as he mouthed at the crest over his heart and, feeling disinclined to fully part from the marvelous form beneath him, settled instead for dragging his mouth across Dean’s torso, licking and kissing at will whenever the urge struck him.

Castiel smoothed a hand languidly over Dean’s hip until it settled against his lower back as Dean arched beautifully up against him, gasping broken versions of his name when a sensitive spot came under Castiel’s ministrations.

“Cas,” Dean whispered, hoarse and dazed, “Please, I—” For all his bravado, the blush staining his cheeks had darkened considerably. “I need to feel you.”

“How?”

“In...inside me.”

Dean’s eyes were hooded and pleading, but it was clear there was some amount of shame attached to the request. Why?

Castiel must have considered him for a beat too long because Dean squirmed slightly in his arms, his eyes averted.

“Unless you—” He cleared his throat, face still aflame. “Unless you desire something else—”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupted, “Of course I want to. I…” He returned his lips to Dean’s sternum, confessing softly into his skin. “I want you in any way you’ll let me have you.” The words left him feeling shy and vulnerable, a strange sensation in the wake of their frenzied lust; he hadn’t realized how much weight they carried until they’d been said aloud.

“Is that so?” There was that charm again, albeit a little thready through whatever nerves Dean had stirred up in himself. Perhaps he would ask about it later.

Now, he rose to kiss his affirmation onto Dean’s pliant mouth. Reluctantly, he let go of Dean and shifted off of him entirely, crawling up the bed to the top left corner and reaching down to rummage for the jug of oil he kept tucked away out of sight just behind one of the bedposts.

No sooner had he successfully retrieved the jug and sat back onto his heels than warm, wet heat enveloped his prick, tugging a strangled moan from his throat. Dean’s tongue was wicked, tracing around the head teasingly before pressing flat against the underside as he hollowed his cheeks and sucked. Castiel tangled his fingers in Dean’s hair reflexively, eager to keep him in place, undecided as to whether the stealthy maneuvering Dean must have done while Castiel was otherwise occupied deserved to be praised or cursed. 

He lost himself for a moment, parting his thighs and thrusting gently forward into the liquid silk around him before pulling back, an apology already on his lips. Dean hummed around him and pulled away, but instead of reprimanding him (as would have been warranted), Dean resituated himself so that he lay flat on his back once more. Arching a challenging eyebrow, he encouraged Castiel forward with a hand on his hip until Castiel was watching himself slide back between soft lips. Another, more suggestive nudge to his hip had Castiel swallowing thickly, worried of misinterpreting Dean’s offer. Studying his features for signs of trepidation or injury, Castiel cupped Dean’s jaw and very carefully let his weight sink forward again, stroking his thumb over a flushed, freckled cheek. 

Dean swallowed around him and Castiel tipped his head back in bliss, knowing he’d have to pull away quite soon if he intended to fulfill Dean’s original request. Convincing himself to pull out of the welcoming mouth around him was an arduous task, but Castiel eventually managed, groaning as Dean’s soft tongue licked along the length of him in a wide, wet slide.

Obvious pride glittered in firelit green eyes as Dean sat up and wiped wetness from his grinning mouth. Castiel blinked blearily against the persistent visual of Dean’s lips stretched around him, squeezing the base of his erection to stave off his inevitable end a little longer. Dean took the (thankfully corked) jug of oil from where Castiel had abandoned it and pushed him gently backwards until he was lying flat before straddling his lap. Castiel’s hands came up of their own accord to pet over thick, strong thighs and sharp hips.

“Is this alright?” Dean asked, pausing in uncorking the oil jug.

Just hearing the wrecked hoarseness in Dean’s voice—a result of his earlier generosity, Castiel was certain—sent him teetering dangerously close to the edge again. A sound halfway between a moan and a sob forced its way past his lips and Castiel clutched desperately at Dean’s hips, unable to nod fast enough. “Yes—Yes, Dean, anything.”

Dean tugged his lip between his teeth, unintentionally coy and seemingly pleased by Castiel’s eager reaction. At last the cork came free of the oil jug with a dull pop and Dean smoothed a generous amount over his fingers before rising slightly off of Castiel’s lap and reaching behind himself.

Castiel was not fool enough to think he had the capacity for much more; as it was, he felt ready to combust in a shower of colorful sparks at the slightest provocation. Still, he mourned his inability to watch Dean touch himself. Next time, if Dean was amenable, Castiel would take him from behind.

This time, he settled for watching Dean’s face instead, tracking his expression as it gradually evolved from mild discomfort to concentration to enjoyment and loving the way he pulled his lower lip between his teeth, releasing it even redder than before. Castiel reached up to thumb experimentally over Dean’s nipples, pleased with himself when Dean’s rhythm faltered briefly.

Dean was sighing appreciatively with every rock back against his own fingers now. Castiel watched rapt as a pearly bead of liquid spilled from the tip of Dean’s erection and trailed slowly downward; he reached to catch the drop against his finger and smoothed it back up over the head, swallowing hard when Dean twitched his hips forward with what could only be described as a whimper, another drop spilling from him to join the first.

Before he could fit his hand around Dean and stroke properly, Dean had removed his fingers and was reaching for the oil jug again. Castiel sighed at the smooth glide of Dean’s hand along his length, giving aborted thrusts upwards when Dean twisted his wrist at the top of each stroke as best he could from his awkward angle.

Just when Castiel was sure he was going to burst, Dean released him and raised himself slightly again. For a moment he was still, hands braced on Castiel’s chest and eyes roving over Castiel’s prone form.

He ducked forward then, capturing Castiel’s lips in a sweet, luxurious kiss before sitting up again, roguish grin in place once more.

“Ready?” he asked softly, pressing back just enough that the head of Castiel’s cock pressed bluntly against where he was slick and open.

Castiel, eyes wide, blood burning with anticipatory arousal, could only nod.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Dean lowered himself into Castiel’s lap. The feeling of slippery heat wrapping tightly around his cock was almost immediately overwhelming, but the sheer knowledge that he was allowed so close to Dean at all—close enough to be intimate with him, close enough to be _inside_ him—bordered on obscene in its sheer eroticism. Castiel clutched at Dean’s wrists, scratched blunt nails down his waist, and finally settled for pressing fingers into his hips and upper thighs hard enough to bruise in an effort to be impossibly deeper.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean whispered reverently, runnnig his hand through Castiel’s hair before cupping his cheek, “I’ve never known anyone to react so strongly.”

Castiel gulped in between shaking breaths. “I...apologize…” he managed, blinking dazedly up at Dean’s lovely face.

“For what?” Dean laughed breathlessly, and Castiel registered the slight tremble in his thighs and his ragged breathing. “It’s incredibly attractive.”

Dean swiveled his hips in a provocative grind and Castiel didn’t bother tempering the upwards snap of his hips. Both of them were well beyond any sort of patience and they quickly found a rhythm; Dean would raise himself up and let Castiel drag him back down hard, curses and broken versions of Castiel’s name spilling freely from his parted lips. 

A slight tilt of his hips tore a shout from Dean and from then on Castiel did his best to keep that angle. Another thrust, another, another, and then Castiel was knocking Dean’s hand away from where he had begun stroking himself so that he could wrap his own hand around Dean’s length instead. Dean watched him hungrily, leaned down to kiss him filthily, and on the next thrust spent himself over Castiel’s chest and stomach. Castiel stroked him through it, loving the way his hips twitched as he rode it out. Finally, _finally_ , Castiel let himself tip over the edge too, clutching Dean against his lap and spilling sticky and hot inside of him. 

They remained still and connected as their breathing slowly returned to something resembling normal. Castiel shuddered, oversensitive, when Dean shifted on top of him again and Dean chuckled lowly, slipping out of his lap and all but tumbling onto the bed next to him. Not even a fraction of a second went by before Castiel twined his arms around Dean greedily, his desire for contact not abated in the slightest.

Dean made a pleased sound and reached up with one hand to card slowly through Castiel’s hair. “I’m very glad,” Dean confessed softly, “that you did not marry Hannah.”

Castiel opened sleepy eyes to study Dean’s profile. The candle had long since burned out, leaving only the moon as a source of light. In that brief moment, as he stroked the pad of his thumb along the freckles that dotted Dean’s cheek, it occurred to him how miserably this entire scenario could have played out. In a different life, in some other universe, a version of him was aching and miserable, longing to feel what he felt now. Loving. Loved. His eyes burned suddenly at the thought, but he blinked the wetness away.

There were too many things he wanted to say, the more inane of which involved asking Dean to marry him on the spot, but he was too exhausted and his mind far too jumbled to make real sense of any of them. It could wait.

“I am too,” he said, leaving it at that for the time being.

Castiel lay with his ear pressed against the spot over Dean’s heart, its sure rhythm lulling him to join Dean in a long, well-deserved sleep.

—

_Sam_ ,

_As repayment for your absence at the Unity Ceremony, I insist you commission an artist for an oil painting and send it to me, so that I may look upon my brand new niece._

_Benny says the way I talk about little Emma is nauseating, but he’s only jealous and I can forgive him for that. Truly, I am so thrilled for you and very glad to hear that both Emma and Jessica are recovering well._

_You would have loved the ceremony. The High Priestess Rowena gave a speech about the importance of appreciating love in all its various forms, be it romantic, familial, or something else altogether. The content would have kept you rapt, but truthfully I’m drawn to Rowena for her accent alone._

_I couldn’t have counted all the different kinds of pie at the post-ceremony celebration if I tried! I hate to say it because I know you’ll show her this letter, but some of them could have rivaled Ellen’s pie. Perhaps when I do visit, I’ll bring the head chef from the castle and we’ll host a contest. I volunteer to judge._

_There is a great deal more to say about everything, but it’ll have to wait until I can recount it to you properly, over a drink. For now, give everyone my best and tell them I’ll be home soon._

_Enjoy sleep while you still can, brother._

_Dean_

_P.S. I did find a nice lad worth sticking around for. I plan to bring him with me when I visit, but I’ll keep his identity to myself until then._


End file.
